


Catalyst

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Ice Play, Inappropriate Use of Household Items, Insecurity, Intercrural Sex, Lingerie, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marking, Misunderstandings, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Playful Sex, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex, Rimming, Sherlock is a Brat, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is of age, Smut, Suit Kink, Summer Vacation, Teasing, Teenlock, Unilock, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:40:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: -----Mycroft's eyes are drawn toward the unexpected obstacle sprawled across the wooden steps.Pale skin – as smooth as marble. Dark hair – with glimmers of copper poking out of balusters of the handrail. An elegant neck – extended to show off the beauty of its musculature.Wait. Mummy hadn’t said anything about visitors.-----
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Holmescest Works [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745683
Comments: 66
Kudos: 265





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts), [Elsa9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsa9/gifts), [queenellis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenellis/gifts), [annyesha_1992](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annyesha_1992/gifts).



> It's another story, but I am 95% done writing this. 
> 
> I feel like my life has been completely flipped on end with everything that is going on. Everything just feels out of my control. Don't really have much motivation to do anything, including writing fanfiction. I just hope everything will be okay at the end, for me and everyone else. Stay safe, and stay inside whenever possible <3

* * *

* * *

#  **0**

Why did he come home again? 

Mycroft wonders when he steps into his parents’ house, only to be greeted by sweltering summer heat. Sweat is already clinging uncomfortably onto his skin, and he is positive that his fine shirt is ruined from the sweat of his armpits. He drags his suitcase into the house, while the suit jacket that he had shed on the way here is draped neatly over his free arm. Alas, he had forgotten that most of England’s older houses come equipped with a radiator and not central air-conditioning. 

Blast it. 

His parents aren’t home – out attending a fundraiser somewhere nearby. Sighing, he muses that he could be, at this very moment, lounging around with a cool drink in his air-conditioned modern-styled flat, or even catching up on paperwork in the cool small office that the MI6 had finally deigned to give him. His fingers loosen his striped tie, while he winces when he catches a view of himself reflected back upon a mirror in the spacious foyer. He’s seen neglected and wilted flowers in bureaucrat offices that look better than his present sorry state. 

Picking up his suitcase, he mounts the stairs – thinking that he ought to go change in his room. A cold shower sounds lovely too. When he pivots right on the intermediate landing, he freezes. His eyes are drawn toward the unexpected obstacle sprawled across the wooden steps. 

Pale skin – as smooth as marble. Dark hair – with glimmers of copper poking out of balusters of the handrail. An elegant neck – extended to show off the beauty of its musculature. 

Wait. Mummy hadn’t said anything about visitors. 

The gorgeous creature – Mycroft is certain – is practically naked, with the exception of a white cotton towel draped across his torso and privates. And then the being opens one eye – evidence of life – and Mycroft almost falls down the stairs in shock. 

Iridescence. This is baby brother. Well, anyways – not so much ‘baby’ anymore, but a young man. The baby-fat on Sherlock’s face had melted away, giving way to the chiseled face of a young God. His limbs are long and lean. 

Good God. Where had the child that had followed him around the house have gone? 

“Hullo, brother – would you kindly mind moving?” 

Sherlock merely turns away from him – somehow managing to take up more space than he had already been occupying. His movement is both lethargic and nonchalant. The towel shifts, just a bit – giving Mycroft the barest hint of a deliciously curved buttock. Had his face not already been flushed crimson from the heat, Mycroft is sure he would be as red as a tomato. 

“Please?” 

The plea falls on deaf ears. Ah. A troll under a bridge that requires a tax, perhaps. Only that this is a beautiful adolescent who has no inkling about what he is doing to the mental state of his big brother. 

“So, what do I need to do to get you to move?” He tries a new tactic. 

“Make it… go away.” 

Ah. He speaks! 

“Make what go away?”

“The heat.” 

“Sherlock, I don’t control the weather.”

“Mm… you control the government. Close enough.” 

“No I do not – as you put it ‘control the government’.” Mycroft had finally managed to get himself a desk job, after a few years of doing some field work. As a result, he hadn’t been home in several years. Nor had he seen his brother during this time. “I merely occupy a minor position –”

“If you have nothing to offer, Mycroft – stop wasting both of our energies. And leave me alone to die in peace.” 

Brat! 

Infuriatingly, annoying – _beautifully gorgeous_ brat!

Sherlock resumes his original position – and Mycroft can’t help noticing that he is posed like a Victorian-era damsel – under the ravages of some chronic illness. As if it is fashionable to be bedridden, or rather stair-ridden. Sighing, he leaves his suitcase on the step he currently stands on and heads back down – undoing the buttons of his waistcoat as he does so. 

* * *

Digging in his parents’ freezer, Mycroft finds a tray of ice cubes. Satisfied, he takes the tray and closes the door. He heads back to Sherlock – who evidently has not moved in the last few minutes that had elapsed. 

“I bring gifts.” He offers.

His brother grumbles unintelligibly.

Sighing, Mycroft pops out an ice cube and places it lightly against Sherlock’s forehead. The ice melts as it touches hot skin – and his brother sighs in relief. He continues to rub it gently across Sherlock’s forehead, before moving downward, tracing all the contours of his face. A proxy for where his fingers would like to touch. 

Damn. There is something seriously wrong with him. A big brother should not be feeling these things for their younger siblings. He focuses on those ridiculously sharp cheekbones, before his ice cube completely disappears. Sherlock’s curls are plastered against his scalp now – bogged down and sticky with a mix of cool water and sweat. 

Sherlock turns slightly and gestures to the back of his neck, and Mycroft indulgently takes out a second and repeats the process, smearing the ice cube lightly against his nape. 

This whole process (game?) is ridiculous. Mycroft realizes that he could have just walked over his brother the first time around. His legs are bloody long enough! Sherlock would no doubt protest, but that would be it. But then, he wouldn’t be able to do this, wouldn’t he? Perhaps this experience says more about him than his brat of a brother. He uses another piece of ice to do his brother’s back, drawing lines on his scapulae. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and his breaths – little sighs of relief and (pleasure?) bring a smile to Mycroft’s lips. 

Whatever this is – it’s certainly better than being holed in his room, having nothing better to do. 

Then, little brother rolls back to his original position, and his finger gestures to his front. Mycroft swallows. This is getting dangerous. What is the endgame anyways? Is his brother simply _using_ him for some sort of heat-relief? Or is there something else a little more _nefarious_ in play? Or does it really matter? Sherlock is getting what he wants. 

And so is he. Isn’t he? 

Harmless fun. 

The ice cube touches the skin over his brother’s manubrium, located where his clavicles join. Sherlock almost hisses at the cold. With a subtle movement, Sherlock drops the towel a tad, revealing his alabaster chest – topped off by two lovely pink nipples. 

Okay. Maybe not so harmless. A more ethical person may have stopped, but Mycroft is too far in to stop now. And, he had never been an ethical person to begin with. One had to be in order to deal with his job. He slides the ice down slowly – inch by inch – centimetre by centimetre – towards one of his brother’s nubs. Sherlock jerks when the ice brushes against his nipple – and the indecent moan Mycroft earns has instantly made his trip back home worth it. 

God. So fucking responsive. And then, he teases the other nub – gently with the edges of the cube, coaxing all sorts of noises from his brother’s beautiful throat. He longs to use his fingers – but instinctively he knows that this is against the rules. Sherlock writhes against the stimulation – one of his hands is clenched tightly around one of the rails. 

Does his brother have a submissive streak? 

What a tantalizing idea. 

When the fifth ice cube disappears, Sherlock wraps himself back up with his towel, and stands up. Without another word, he strides upstairs and disappears into his own room, shutting the door unceremoniously behind him. 

Oh fuck. 

Somehow, Mycroft senses that his life would never be the same again.

What is Sherlock playing at… anyways? 

Or did little brother bite off more than he could handle?

* * *

After dinner, in his room – Mycroft pulls out a cigarette from his secret stash. A nasty habit, but made necessary through the rigours of climbing the ranks of the government over the past few years. With his lighter, he lights the fag – and brings the poison to his lips. He inhales, before exhaling into the still-hot evening air through his open window.

Little brother had ignored him and their parents all throughout dinner. Eating a few bites here and there, but had spent most of it half-heartedly playing with his vegetables. His parents behaved as if there had been nothing wrong – making Mycroft suspect that this is a common theme. But then again, it’s not like they had ever had control over Sherlock. When the boy had been a toddler, he had listened to Mycroft – but clearly this isn’t the case any longer. 

Not when all Mycroft’s befuddled brain could think of was his brother arching into his touch – and that lascivious moan when he had pressed that ice cube against his nipple. It doesn’t take much for him to extrapolate other details; for instance how Sherlock would behave during actual sex. God. He’s already half-hard. To be fair, he had been some degree of erect ever since seeing his brother on those damned steps – spread out like a fantastic feast for a famished man. He hadn’t even known that he had been hungry. None of the men he had bedded over the past years could hold a candle to Sherlock. 

He is tempted to have a quick wank, but it just seems so wrong...

Good Lord. Gorgeous brat is perhaps his type. 

The door to his room creaks open, revealing Sherlock – his brother returning to his scantily clad state with the towel wrapped around his torso. Little brother had worn a dressing gown down to dinner. 

Sherlock arches an inquisitive eyebrow as if to inquire. _Smoking, brother dear? How plebeian._ And then, of course, his brother reaches out as if to demand _Gimme!_

“Really, brother – you shouldn’t –”

“Don’t be boring, Mycroft. Anyways, you would rather have me –”

Oh. So what Mummy had said was true then? That she had suspected that little brother had dabbled with things illegal and most dangerous during his days at Cambridge? 

“Just because you’ve been doing harder dru–”

Sherlock plucks the smouldering cigarette from Mycroft’s fingers and immediately brings it to his plush lips with his long masculine fingers. Absolutely bloody impertinent. Those lips pucker around where Mycroft’s lips had been as Sherlock draws in the nicotine and god-knows-what-else deep – and fuck – Mycroft is forced to turn away. His mind – his corrupted mind – had conjured up an image of those same lips forming an ‘o’ around his already aching (and now fully hard) member. 

God. He bites down on his lip to suppress the noise (moan?) that threatens to escape. 

From his peripheral vision, he sees Sherlock casually extend his neck and blow out the smoke in obnoxious rings. Definitely not little brother’s first encounter with a fag. 

“Something wrong, Mycroft?” A dangerous smirk forms on this incarnation of Satan. 

“Absolutely not.” It takes all of Mycroft’s willpower to enunciate each syllable. 

After the one drag, Sherlock returns the cigarette back into Mycroft’s nerveless hand.

“Thank you, big brother.” How could such eyes show such innocence? 

Without ceremony, Sherlock turns around and leaves the room. 

A minute later, with the fag still burning in his frozen fingers – Mycroft stubs it out with haste and runs straight into the adjoining loo.

* * *

* * *

#  **1**

“Where are we going?” 

Sherlock asks, as he helps himself to a finger-sandwich of crayfish from the tiered tray. Little brother is dressed in a lovely blue shirt – bringing out the hints of blue in his blue-green-grey eyes. The heat wave still continues, but inside this quaint white-washed Sussex cafe, there are strategically located fans and a light breeze coming from the outside. The past two days had been uneventful – Sherlock and he had kept to themselves – both melting from the unusually high temperatures. Mummy had told Mycroft to take Sherlock out for a few days. So, Mycroft had done so. The damage from the first day had been done though – his mind had been filled with naked-little-brother since then. 

“The beach.”

“How predictable…” Sherlock drawls, as he munches into a roast beef on rye. It is amazing how bored Sherlock can look – but Mycroft is beginning to realize that this is all a facade. 

Maybe two can play at this game… hm. He needs more data.

Deliberately, he ensnares one of his brother’s legs with his own while treating himself to one of the deliciously buttered crumpets. Sherlock doesn’t try to escape. Nor does he react. Instead, he daintily eats a third sandwich – fresh-caught-trout and cucumber. Mycroft slips his foot out of his leather shoe, and slowly he slides his sock-clad foot against his brother’s leg. 

When he reaches the inner thigh and proceeds to rub circles, Sherlock’s composure begins to crack. His brother sighs – and Mycroft almost gasps when their hands meet each other instead of the miniature cup of English trifle. The contact lingers longer than what is natural for two brothers, before they both retreat – leaving the trifle alone. His brother’s hand had felt warm and soft against his; he can still feel the ghost of touch dance through his nerves. 

After Mycroft pays the bill, and they leave – he realizes that the move had been no accident. After all, Sherlock knows that English trifle is Mycroft’s favourite dessert. 

God. What does little brother want? Other than driving Mycroft utterly nuts? 

* * *

Ridiculously soft sand. Lush grasses growing in luxurious patches. The salty sea breeze. Cloudless sky. A clear blue sea as far as the eye could see. Gulls calling and soaring seaward, riding the thermals. A flash of alabaster skin. Sherlock runs – clad in a pair of swimming trunks – into the gentle waves caressing the shore. Little brother throws himself into the waters, determined to finally obtain respite from the ludicrously hot weather. And, when Mycroft starts contemplating the breathing capabilities of the human body – little brother emerges like a siren deep from the depths of the sea. 

Gorgeous. 

What is he doing here on the sand? 

Mycroft is a hunter. He isn’t someone who passively watches the world go by. He is the _apex_ predator. Ready to take what he wants from the world – be it power, money, influence – it doesn’t matter. Certainly, he didn’t get his office in Whitehall by playing _nice_ or following rules. The rumours of his exploits – of his ruthless decision-making and execution of said decisions are legend among the denizens of the British Government. A man as cold as _ice._

It’s time to take what he wants – now that he is aware of its availability. Unlike the boisterous way Sherlock had thrown himself into the sea, Mycroft slips in with nary a splash. His strokes strong, his arms propel him easily through the waves. Spotting where his brother is from afar, he dives – pushing himself rapidly through the waters with a dolphin-kick. 

He emerges – a leviathan of the seven seas – and his arms encircle Sherlock’s slender waist, dragging him back down into the depths. His brother fights him after a moment of shock – but Mycroft is deceptively strong. Sure, he might have a predilection for bespoke three-piece-suits, expensive scotch, black-noir cinematography and the collection of art from civilizations long gone – but that is only a small part of him. 

And when he is sure his brother could take no more, he rises back up – with Sherlock’s head resting against his shoulder. He maintains his grip around his – for yes, he is a possessive man. He relaxes one arm, and slides it alongside Sherlock’s back, along the curves of his spine – stopping when he reaches the back of his brother’s hair. He grabs the soft, waterlogged curls and guides Sherlock’s head to his own – and he kisses those pliant lips thoroughly – releasing the last few days’ worth of sexual frustration, before dipping his tongue inward, tasting hints of their midday-meal, the salt of the sea and a little something fundamentally Sherlock. The kiss only gets broken when Mycroft absolutely has to breathe, and his brother looks dazed, and utterly out of his depth – for once. A perturbed equilibrium. 

Perfect. 

Sherlock looks as if to speak, but Mycroft brushes his lips delicately against his brother’s again – this time slowing and savouring the experience. His brother may have played the role of the temptress, but it is increasingly evident that he has little if any practical experience for the matters after a seduction. Not that Mycroft minds – if he plays his cards right, he will ruin his brother for everyone else. The movement of Sherlock’s lips are clumsy with inexperience – and his technique sloppy, but Mycroft enjoys it, regardless. There is a delicate flush on Sherlock’s face when they separate for a second time to draw breath. And his brother nibbles on his bottom lip in nervousness – betraying his youth for the first time – suddenly looking very-much like the adolescent boy he still is. 

God. He’s robbing a cradle. 

Something tender – almost fond – seems to bloom in his chest, and Mycroft carefully allows Sherlock to rest his head against his furry chest. His fingers run comfortingly along his brother’s locks, enjoying this subdued version of Sherlock. His brother tilts his head, and those mesmerizing, startling eyes gaze into his own – as beautiful and complex as the hues of the seas that surround them. The orbs look surprised… maybe even confused. Not about what had happened. But at the dizzying speed and how readily everything had happened. 

“I for one am glad that I can still surprise you, little brother.” His sentence is a whisper; a breeze amongst many. “Not so boring, your big brother?”

Sherlock reaches up to wrap his arms around Mycroft’s neck while his long legs wrap around Mycroft’s thighs. The words are murmured. “Thought you would have more hang-ups about it. About banal trivialities. Like the law. The age-gap.”

“Laws are for goldfish.” Mycroft shrugs dismissively, while musing about how many laws both domestic and international he circumvents to do his job. Really, what’s one more? “I won’t be the only one at Whitehall with an illegal vice, brother dear.” 

“Am I only a vice to you, brother?” Sherlock frowns – the iridescence in those irises darken; a maelstrom brewing within.

Mycroft tightens his grip on his brother – preventing his drama queen from storming off. He then whispers – his voice both dark and possessive. “You are _mine._ ” 

His brother shudders at his words as Mycroft starts the trek back to the beach, gradually supporting more and more of _his_ Sherlock’s weight as the water levels become shallower.

* * *

“Do we have to use those?” Sherlock almost whines when he watches Mycroft lay out a few packets of condoms next to the tube of lubricant. 

“Mummy did insinuate –”

“Ah, Mummy managing to insert herself into my sex-life already –” Sherlock shakes his head and changes gears – realizing the negative effect the topic of conversation has on their respective libidos. “I am clean and sober, Mycroft – she made me go to the doctor as soon as I came home for the summer.” He then adds. “I swear.”

“Fine.” Mycroft puts away the offending items, before climbing onto the queen-sized bed – where little brother is already situated in the middle of it. He is surprised that Mummy had gotten Sherlock to do anything at all. From little brother’s eyes – he knows that he isn’t being lied to. “But –”

“If you want this to continue, Sherlock – no more drugs, no more blahblahblah.” His brother interjects, finishing his thought for him. “I know. You would drop me otherwise.” 

“I am serious.” Mycroft reiterates. “And, Sherlock – I wouldn’t drop you. I meant what I said – that you are _mine._ ” He pounces, gently – straddling his brother’s hips, before bending down to meet his brother’s lips. Never ever will he get bored of exploring Sherlock’s delectable mouth. “What does it mean to be mine, hm?” His own mouth quirks into a smile – the smile of a great-white shark. He chuckles, enjoying the flush of arousal on fair skin – the darkening of little brother’s irises. “Guess we will find out.” 

They snog, while Mycroft’s hands roam tirelessly – first carefully stripping Sherlock of his garments, before worshipping the revealed skin – all that delicious flesh that he had longed to touch, kiss and nibble at on the first day, when he had been ‘cooling’ Sherlock down with the ice cubes. His brother shudders and moans; how wantonly he would arch into Mycroft’s caresses and how shamelessly he bucks his hips – trying to rub his own cock against something – anything for more. 

“Mycroft, please.” These two delicious words become Sherlock’s new mantra; a new prayer which makes Mycroft feel like a sex-god of sorts. Not to mention their variations the further along they get. A breathy ‘My-croft, p-please’ dissolving into desperate monosyllables of ‘My’ and ‘Plea’. 

When Mycroft finally frees his brother’s cock from the confines of his surprisingly red pants – it barely takes one stroke to finish little brother off. A little gasp escapes from Sherlock when his ejaculate spills onto the lovely planes of his abdomen – featuring the lovely toned rectus abdominis that Mycroft would love to have for himself. His brother sinks deeper into the mattress in his post-coital state, as Mycroft grabs the nearby towel and wipes the cum off his brother’s belly. 

When he reaches downward to finish himself off – Sherlock reaches over and grabs his wrist. “My – I want you to fuck me.” The request is mumbled.

“Not possible and it’s too soon.” Mycroft knows that he will not last for such a feat. Seeing his brother undone for the first time in his life had pushed him close to the edge. And – he is certain Sherlock is a virgin; bottoming is something they should work towards together – if that is what little brother truly wants. No, they should take the time to explore their sexuality and all the kinks that came with it. There is no rush. “How about this?” He positions his brother onto his hands and knees and places his cock between those toned ‘runner’s’ thighs after slicking up his prick with lube. He demands. “Squeeze.” 

Sherlock does, and Mycroft groans at the sudden makeshift tightness. He thrusts slowly – getting used to this new position – and takes care to brush his member against the cleft of his brother’s generous arse – near that lovely orifice that no brother should ever see. It takes barely five good strokes before he cums, most of it landing on the already soiled towel. With a growl, he wraps his arms around his brother’s hips and rolls – flipping them both onto their backs – with Sherlock landing on Mycroft’s front with a surprised noise that sounded suspiciously like a squeal. His brother twists his neck slightly – asking silently for a kiss that Mycroft – even in his own blissed out state – immediately supplies.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

* * *

#  **2**

The aroma of sex greets Sherlock the next morning.

Something tickles his cheek. Blearily he opens his eyes, finding himself in a dim air-conditioned room. 

Fur. Warm soft skin. Mycroft. 

Sex. They had sex. He’s no longer a virgin in one sense; the sixth form boys had teased him mercilessly about that back in the day. If he focuses hard enough – he can feel Mycroft’s touch tingle through the sensitive nerve-endings of his flesh. Now he understands why the boys chase after what Sherlock had once perceived as gross and unhygienic; the swapping of bodily fluids – the rubbing of flesh against flesh. 

Mycroft stirs. There is a weight on his chest impeding his breaths. Little brother had used him as a pillow last night – his delightfully unruly mop spread against his chest. His fingers slide into the soft locks, causing his brother to look up at him. His lips unconsciously curl into a smile. “Morning, gorgeous boy.” 

Sherlock ought to be miffed. He is _not_ a boy. But his brother had used a qualifier. Gorgeous. He had said; Sherlock knows objectively that he is not – he is too lanky and skinny – a scarecrow. Somehow, his brother didn’t seem to think so. He had known enough that it had been lust that had been in Mycroft’s eyes when his brother had first laid his eyes upon him. And the way Mycroft had explored his body last night and cuddled with him afterwards had made Sherlock feel like he was someone special. Someone worth lavishing attention on. 

“Gorgeous.” Mycroft repeats himself as he slides his palm down Sherlock’s face, using his fingers to direct little brother to look at him once more. Idiots. He thinks. Teenage boys are notorious for their cruelty toward those they deem different. His swan didn’t even know how stunning he truly is. “My beautiful ‘Lock.” 

Perhaps Mycroft is slightly delusional. But, Sherlock appreciates it all the same. He scrunches his eyes shut in pleasure when big brother’s hand roams lower in a possessive manner, his fingers taking detours to tease his nipples – little bits of flesh that Sherlock had learned could give him so much. This is a dream. A fantasy. He can pretend that he is Mycroft’s gorgeous boy. Or his beautiful ‘Lock. 

“Open your eyes, little brother.” Mycroft says softly as he sits up, bringing Sherlock with him. 

At Sherlock’s hesitation, he reaches upwards to brush his fingertips against Sherlock’s eyelids – forcing them to reflexively open. 

“I am going to suck your pretty cock – Lockie. And I want you to watch. Then… you can return the favour.” Mycroft pauses, and then adds “If you wish.” as an afterthought. 

_Lockie!_ It is as if he had been transported years back. No one calls him Lockie… well no one except Mycroft had ever used that moniker. His indignation brought to an abrupt halt when a warm hot mouth engulfs the tip of his prick – the glans. It is an unbelievable sensation – the heat, the light bit of suction, the teasing, but light touches of his brother’s tongue and the visual! His brother – the all-important-British-government – is blowing him. Sucking his cock. Like a delicacy to be savoured. Sherlock had always thought a blowjob was a glorified handjob – but clearly – once again, he is wrong. 

Very wrong.

Mycroft could see the moment where Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut once more; his brows furrowed as he enjoys the sensations that Mycroft evokes within him. As it’s his brother’s first blowjob – he generously allows Sherlock to enjoy it for longer – using the tip of his tongue to tease the frenulum. Just in small doses. 

He knows Sherlock is close. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock whines – almost petulantly when Mycroft lets his cock go with an obscene slurpy-type of noise. 

“If you recall, mon petit frère – I did ask you to watch me.” Mycroft reprimands. 

“I tried!” Sherlock answers with umbrage. “It feels too good!” 

“Well, try harder.” Mycroft is not impressed. “How else will you ever learn?” 

Sherlock’s grumbles are cut short when Mycroft resumes the blowjob, this time swirling his tongue against his brother’s turgid flesh. Sherlock moans loudly when Mycroft suddenly swallows around his cock – and suddenly a gush of hot cum floods Mycroft’s mouth accompanied by little brother’s surprised shout of “My!”. With ease, Mycroft swallows, licking his lips to ensure that he has gotten every drop. 

Delicious. 

* * *

“Lock, kindly stop doing that!” 

Little brother simply looks at him across the table with wide innocent eyes. The only thing that suggests something is awry is the tiniest of smiles that grace his beautiful face, illuminated by the flickers of candlelight. It is almost… demure. A nine-tailed fox growing into her seductive powers – tempting men into mischief, or perhaps reeling them in to consume their souls – as East Asianic folklore went. The kumiho in Korea, or the kitsune in Japan. Sherlock certainly had managed to fulfil both purposes on the third day of their jaunt to the coast. 

“Not doing anything.” Sherlock licks at the tines of his fork with the tip of his tongue, before stabbing a tender morsel of roasted suckling pig with crispy skin. Mycroft watches as little brother chews – almost _moaning_ at the succulent flavour, before swallowing – extending that delicate throat. 

Just a tad. 

Mycroft is going to go mad. He is certain. This is all payback, cunningly calculated by little brother for Mycroft not wanting to stay in a bed all day to satiate Sherlock’s newfound appetites. It is all artiface. They had gone on a hot-air balloon ride to view the stunning landscapes beforehand – the cliffs, the lush hills, the sea – of East Sussex. Instead, Mycroft’s attention had been riveted on Sherlock for his brother had developed a habit of running his fingers repeatedly through his curls, drawing lines on his torso – reminiscent of the same pathways that Mycroft had traced during sex – in the pretence of freeing his tight shirt and trousers from _wrinkles,_ smacking his lips and extending that gorgeous long neck as if luxuriating in the sunlight at the edge of the basket – his eyes closed as his own fingers ghosted along the natural contours of his throat. 

Little brother had even sighed. _Sighed_ in pleasure!

Now, they are in a medieval themed restaurant, attached to a swanky hotel – with tall visible wooden beams and white-washed walls. Sherlock had not let his shenanigans abate one bit, starting from the melt-in-your-mouth foie gras starter all the way to licking the strawberry filling and ice cream of the tart that had been for dessert. Never ever had Mycroft been so hard in a public space. His cock could probably cut diamonds. All he wants to do is take his errant succubus of a little brother, turn him over his knee and give him the hiding he so rightfully deserves. 

“You okay, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, his voice filled with an uncharacteristic concern. “You look feverish.”

“It _is_ hot outside, little brother.” Mycroft remarks, almost gritting his teeth in frustration. He knows that his brother knows the cause of his troubles. 

“And you still want to go see the outdoor play?” Sherlock waggles an eyebrow suggestively – gesturing to Mycroft that they could compose their own Acts upstairs in their king-sized hotel bed. 

Mycroft will see through his original itinerary to the bitter end. 

“Well.” Little brother shrugs nonchalantly. “Suit yourself.”

* * *

Sitting near the back – high above the stage – of the outdoor theatre, Mycroft finds himself enjoying the performance of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. The actors and actresses competent, the costumes appropriate and pleasing to his artistic eye – and the director has some genius in making it all work in a somewhat original fashion, considering how often this Shakespearean play has been revived throughout the years. 

He feels it then. In the middle of Act III, Scene One. The lightest of touches against his thigh. The pressure grows firmer as Sherlock’s fingers move to his inner thigh before moving to his groin. God. It’s so tacky; such an amateur move. In the past, Mycroft had fended off much more sophisticated attempts from individuals far more experienced than Sherlock; both in his personal life and in his line of work – the foreign operatives trained in the art of seduction. Yet – it works wonders on him. He fights hard to stifle the moan threatening to leave him when Sherlock brazenly squeezes his already tormented cock. 

His brother huffs quietly in displeasure when Mycroft abruptly removes his hand from his person. But – predictably, minutes later, the mischievous fingers are back, drawing teasing little patterns on the sensitive skin of Mycroft’s thigh. Forcefully, he shoves his brother’s arm away, earning a giggle from Sherlock. 

God. He has never wanted to strangle his brother so much in his life. 

Is this the price he must pay for his life’s choices? 

Fortunately, the scene draws to a close – and the lights come back on – signalling intermission. Sherlock turns to him, his warm breath caressing the curve of Mycroft’s ear. “I am going to the loo.” 

It doesn’t take a genius to decode the fact that Sherlock wants him to follow him. 

Little brother stands up – and stretches, allowing for Mycroft to see the full extension of his beautiful throat just one more time before walking away. 

After the passage of a long minute, Mycroft leaps up to his feet and curses. 

_Damn it!_

* * *

In the empty bathroom (for Sherlock had opted to go all the way back to the hotel lobby), Mycroft storms into the stall that little brother occupies and grabs him none-too-gently by the collar of his shirt with both hands. He shakes him a bit – resisting the urge to throttle the sly minx, before almost hissing. “What are you playing at, Lock?”

For the first time today, Sherlock falters. Perhaps, he has pushed big brother one step too far. Knowing when to stop has always been an issue for him. But, somehow… he finds this situation beyond arousing. He had loved it – when he had initially discerned that Mycroft had quite a dominant side to him. An unexpected discovery. His brother asphyxiating him in the sea. Directing him to do things. And even now, the deathgrip that Mycroft has on his shirt. It both scares him and thrills him. 

It fills him with complicated feelings. 

He shouldn’t like this. Being manhandled like this.

But he does. 

“Answer me.” Mycroft demands, his normally cool blue-eyes essentially burning through Sherlock… to the depths of his soul. 

“I – I… don’t know.” Sherlock goes with the truth. 

He really doesn’t. 

But, it had made him feel powerful too, knowing that his actions (charms?) had driven his brother to the brink of insanity. For big brother is a catch. Gone is the rotund chubby teenager that his brother had been during Sherlock’s childhood. In his place, had stood a man of the world – with just the right edge of experience. Even with an aura of danger radiating from him. 

When he had seen Mycroft walk up the stairs despite the effects of the heatwave with his gorgeous long limbs, he had known. Known that big brother is the one for him. Even though he had limited experiences in these matters – aside from a few fumbles with some insignificant boys in school who would only want to be with him in private, and not publicly before his days at Cambridge – he had caught the way Mycroft looked at him. Lusted after him. And when Mycroft had brought the ice cubes – God, never had anything been so hot. Or rather cold. He had a chance – so he had taken it without another thought. 

“I really ought to spank you, brother.”

“But you won’t.” Sherlock smiles shyly.

Big brother would never hurt him. This is a fact that he is certain of. Unless… if it is something Sherlock wanted. Damn. This deserves more reflection.

“No. I won’t.” Mycroft sighs deeply. Not without Sherlock's explicit permission. “On your knees, you menace.” He tries instead, and it thrills him beyond words when Sherlock obeys, immediately sinking to his knees onto the recently cleaned floor tiles. 

Oh. Big brother wants him to suck his cock. He watches as Mycroft’s long fingers unzips the fly of his trousers, and reveals his thick, already-half-erect, flushed prick. 

Sherlock practically salivates at the sight as Mycroft takes his own cock in hand, and frigs himself with leisurely strokes. Cautiously Sherlock leans forward, just a bit. His pink tongue darts out, licking at the bead of precum that escapes from big brother’s slit. He is nervous, for this is the first blowjob he had ever given. 

Mycroft stifles his groan, surprised by how such simple and innocent acts could have such a profound impact on him. Slowly… ever so slowly Sherlock takes in Mycroft’s glans with an indecent slurp, his mouth lax and applying gentle suction. Mycroft sighs as little brother gradually takes more of his cock into his mouth. What a picture Sherlock makes! Those plush pink lips forming a perfect ‘o’ around his prick. “Gods… yes.” He breathes. “You are made for this, little brother. To suck cock.” 

His brother colours at his words, but he continues his task – making up for his lack of inexperience with enthusiasm. Sherlock moans partway through, sending the most delicious of vibrations up Mycroft’s prick and spine, and he notices it.

The greedy boy! Stroking at his own member through his jeans! 

“Stop that, boy, right now!” Mycroft orders, immediately reaching out to grab both of his brother’s wrists. His brother whines and squirms in protest, but Mycroft holds gamely on. 

Eventually, Sherlock stops resisting, and Mycroft brings one of his hands up to his lips. He brushes a gentle kiss against the digits. Somehow, the sweetness in the gesture grounds Sherlock – reminding that there must be a point to what big brother wants him to do, and he takes Mycroft’s prick back into his mouth and swirls his tongue around the crown – similar to what Mycroft had done for him. 

“Yes. Oh yes… my perfect boy. That’s it. Yes.” Mycroft croons, spurring Sherlock on, bringing him closer to the edge. “I am so close. So close, Sherlock.” 

Their eyes meet for another brief moment, and Sherlock understands that swallowing is optional. Mycroft would never make Sherlock give something that he doesn’t want to give. Or isn’t ready to give. He remembers how easily Mycroft had taken his cum the previous few times. 

How hard could it possibly be? 

Mycroft’s climax comes suddenly; a toe-curling euphoria that spreads throughout his entire body. He cums in a few quick bursts, and Sherlock promptly gags, choking when he had attempted to swallow at the wrong moment. The ejaculate dribbles copiously down his chin. Mycroft tries to pull away, but Sherlock stubbornly refuses to let go, licking and sucking the remainder of his emissions from his softening cock. Once the waves of pleasure dissipate, Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s curls and kisses him. Kisses him fiercely. Tasting himself. All the frustration built up from earlier in the day had long disappeared. Had been long forgiven. Sherlock wraps his arms around his brother and asks, or rather begs – breathless with need. “My… please. Let me cum?”

“You’ve been a terrible boy, Lockie – I don’t think you deserve such a treat.” Mycroft says, with the straightest face he could manage. He shakes his head in mock dismay. “It’s barely been three days, and you’ve become such a slut. Unacceptable.” 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock whines in frustration. On a whim, he adds – rather horrified by his own admission. “But, My – I am _your_ slut!”

“Mm… in that case, I should make you come all over your pants, shouldn’t I? Let you marinate yourself in your own cum during the rest of the play, hm? Like a proper slutty tart.” Mycroft grins, enjoying the spectrum of red that his brother’s face flushes and the conflicting emotions warring somewhere in his brother’s psyche about taking this sort of humiliation. 

He can see the moment where Sherlock reaches the ‘fuck it’ point.

“Please, Mycroft – yes. Anything.” Sherlock buries his face into Mycroft’s lap. And then he dares to admit, seconds later – his mischievous eyes gazing into Mycroft’s own. “Not wearing any pants, My.”

“Naughty boy!” He reaches downward to rub at his brother’s cock – and Sherlock immediately catches on – rutting desperately against Mycroft’s palm. 

“Oh, please. Oh – please! My!” Sherlock begs, and as he comes closer to the precipice, Mycroft removes his hand at a critical moment, and Sherlock almost bursts into tears. “My…!”

“Hush, you.” He says, gently stroking his brother’s cheek instead, using his thumb to caress the curve of his delicate zygomatic arch. “Just giving you some of your own medicine, you cheeky boy.” The best sex isn’t about the endpoint, but the journey undertaken – but Sherlock doesn’t know that yet. Of course, little brother – being not even twenty – could cum multiple times in an hour, and Mycroft had done that with him earlier in the morning in all sorts of ways with his hands, mouth and other body parts. But, Mycroft would like to teach him this principle at some point – sooner rather than later. 

And then, Sherlock realizes that his hands are free – and before Mycroft could stop him – little brother strokes once, twice – and perhaps thrice before he cums in his trousers with a gasp, his eyes almost rolling back in pleasure as he rides out the aftershocks of his intense orgasm. Mycroft catches him before he could fall backwards, and hugs him close to his chest. 

“Good?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock nods. “Yeah. Thank you, Mycroft. I loved it.” 

He had loved every single moment of it. The gentle verbal humiliation. The denial. The frantic desperation of needing to cum. Sex is interesting – with so many permutations to try out in the future. It will never be boring. “Will you fuck me, soon?”

“Soon.” Mycroft kisses him on the cheek. “Tomorrow.”

“You promise?” 

Tomorrow is the last full day of their little trip, before they return back to their parents house. Things between them will be much more difficult to carry out. And Sherlock would like to lose his anal virginity before then. To be owned by his big brother in this special and most exclusive way. 

“Yes. I promise.” _Anything._ Mycroft cannot help but to smile fondly at his brat of a brother. They will officially break the law then. “And, you… you will behave tomorrow?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock smirks as they finally leave the stall, his arm wrapped tightly around his brother’s. Quietly he whispers in Mycroft’s ear, just as they exit the loo. His hot breath sends frissons down Mycroft’s nerves. “You like me bratty.”

It is an undeniable truth. “God help me. I do.”

* * *

* * *

#  **3**

Overhead, fireworks crackle and pop in the clear night sky. The heat of the nearby bonfire keeps the chill of the evening sea breeze at bay. There are people scattered all around the beach, laughing, dancing some sort of odd jig around the fires scattered around the shore or just simply relaxing, enjoying the view with a drink in hand.

Sherlock sits between his brother’s thighs, his head resting on his brother’s shirt-clad chest – surprised that Mycroft would permit him to do so in such a public space. One of his brother’s arms encircles him, while a wandering hand caresses him, wherever it could reach. It’s nice. How close they are. The scent of Mycroft – the expensive notes of his characteristic cologne, his sweat, the sea salt and something else he could not describe – soothes him. If he closes his eyes, he could pretend. This is what it’s like to have a boyfriend. Someone that cares for him. A person he could have fun with. But of course, big brother cares for him in some way. In a fraternal way. A pang fills his chest. If only he could have this beyond the span of a few brief days. 

An urge to kiss his brother takes hold of him. Mycroft had initiated all the earlier snogs. Would his initiative even be welcomed?

Straightening out his back slowly, he turns his neck slightly – counterclockwise – and tentatively brushes his lips against his brother’s. He feels a hand touch his cheek. A brief stabbing pain afflicts his chest – is this rejection? He thinks. No. Mycroft gently cups his face, controlling the kiss. Sherlock thrills in it – knowing that they are doing this in front of strangers. They had kissed earlier in public, when they had walked the shores and cliffs nearby and enjoyed a picnic in the lush grasses overlooking the beach in the early afternoon.

Mycroft had been startled when Sherlock’s lips suddenly came into contact with his own. He doesn’t push him away – figuring that everyone else is far too absorbed in their own spheres of experience. Nor does anyone know that they are siblings. They look like any other gay couple. His brother’s kisses are still ever so sloppy, although improved since the first day. There is affection in this kiss, a slow dance of lips exploring the contours of the other’s – beginning a slow simmer somewhere else in his body. 

When the tips of their tongues meet, a sweet perhaps tender touch – it is electrifying. Their movements sensual; the tempo adagio. Sherlock sighs when their noses brush – Mycroft can feel the warm air from his brother’s nostrils as he exhales. When they finally pull away slightly from each other, there is a happy look on little brother’s face, his kiss-swollen lips have quirked into a small grin – his eyes, illuminated by the flickers of fire, have darkened with arousal. With want. Just for him. 

Fuck. How much he wants. With a grunt while rearranging little brother in his arms, he stands up. Sherlock wraps his arms tightly around Mycroft’s shoulders, his cheek lightly touching Mycroft’s own slightly stubbly one. Mycroft doesn’t know if he can carry little brother all the way back to their hotel room without fatiguing, but he will certainly try. 

* * *

“Fuck me, brother!” Sherlock demands, his eyes shining under the lamplight of their suite, after Mycroft had unceremoniously tossed him onto their bed. 

Mycroft’s arms had given way when he had reached the lobby, so he had piggy-backed his brother instead. He chuckles, darkly. “Oh, I will fuck you, alright – Lockie.” I will fuck you till you scream. He finds the lubricant before returning to bed; his brother had divested himself of all his garments in the meanwhile – his very naked, gorgeous, almost hairless body laid out artlessly on the silky sheets. He admires the view, while Sherlock gives a huff of impatience. Mycroft can see through his brother though – see that his Sherlock is nervous like a virgin bride on the day of her deflowerment. Ah. He can’t have that. 

Leaping into bed, he crawls up to his brother, pressing little kisses against his face. His hands stroke soft flesh, coaxing little mewls of pleasure when they lightly flick and pinch at his nubs, causing them to stiffen. Gradually Sherlock relaxes into his touch – his hips bucking for some sort of stimulation. So beautiful. So young. Mycroft’s hands trail down his waist and hips, before gently coaxing his thighs to part, giving him access. Lifting his brother’s sac out of the way, he sees it – that most secret, rosy orifice that he knows that Sherlock had been keeping clean for him. His brother jerks when he lightly brushes against his hole with a finger, and he smiles. 

“My… please!” Little brother pleads.

“Mm… so lovely.” Mycroft mutters, more to himself, as he engulfs Sherlock’s cock – as far as he could take it in one go – with his mouth.

His brother goes slack as Mycroft swirls his tongue against his length, slowly. And Sherlock bucks into Mycroft’s mouth when Mycroft opens the lubricant with a _snick_ , and he gasps – loudly, when a lube-slicked finger circles teasingly around his rim before carefully sliding in. 

The stretch is glorious. Sherlock shudders, moans and begs for more when Mycroft inserts his second finger, gently scissoring. Mycroft does so with care, not wanting Sherlock to get too stimulated. When his third digit penetrates, Mycroft allows Sherlock’s prick to slip out of his mouth. Minutes later, he asks, “Ready?”

This is the moment Sherlock had been waiting for. He shivers, with both trepidation and want. The firm ‘yes’ that he had wanted to reply with turns into a shuddery, “Yeess.”. Mycroft looks at him – the blues of his eyes have softened with a fondness that strips the remainder of fear from Sherlock’s mind. He whines slightly when his brother finally removes his fingers from his hole. 

He feels it then, his brother’s thick and hard member poking lightly at his perianal skin. A gasp is wrenched from him when Mycroft presses in – the large slicked cockhead stretching him out wide. It burns, but on the right side of pain. He knows big brother is watching him – watching him for any signs of distress; any signal to abort. But he wants more, so he wiggles his arse, trying to take more of his brother’s prick – and Mycroft chuckles again.

“Eager, aren’t we?” Mycroft asks, amused as his cock bottoms out. 

“Yes – and can you – just move?” 

“Demanding as always.” 

“Only for you.” Sherlock smirks.

The smirk is quickly wiped off his face when his brother does finally move, thrusting his cock steadily – nudging all sorts of sensitive spots (for one, his prostate) within him that Sherlock hadn’t been aware of. He tries to hold back his moans which causes an uncomfortable pressure to build within his chest, which causes big brother to smile. 

“I want to hear you, Lockie.” Mycroft says, softly. “Show me your appreciation. You can learn how to be silent later, when I fuck you next door to our parents.”

The latter sentence catches him off guard, causing the moan to escape from him. His brain churns slowly, too encumbered with the pleasures that Mycroft is creating within him. There will be more? Later? And next door to their parents? God. What a thought. Mycroft still wants him?! Beyond these few days of amazing sex? He can feel the pleasure crest. “More!” He demands, and his brother indulges him – pounding harder away at his arse. The brink looms close to him – and he starts bucking against Mycroft, wanting more, needing more. 

His hand – he thinks, it would only take a jerk or two to finish himself off – but his limbs feel leaden with the mind blowing bliss flowing within him. And then a warm hand surrounds his cock, and strokes – once and then twice – with a delicious sort of a twist at the end and Sherlock spills, his body writhing in the post-coital sensations. It only takes a thrust more for Mycroft to follow him into the post-orgasmal state, spurting his hot cum deep into Sherlock’s canal – marking him as his.

“God. You are perfect. So good for me. My good boy. My Lockie.” His brother whispers, as tender hands gather Sherlock’s boneless body against his own. 

It’s strange, Sherlock thinks – that he finds his brother’s words far more gratifying than the orgasm itself. 

Is it the praise? Or the undeniable affection in Mycroft’s voice? The possessiveness? But, it doesn’t really matter, does it? He snuggles against his brother’s torso.

“I wish we didn’t have to go back.” Sherlock murmurs somewhat resentfully, minutes later.

Mycroft nuzzles his cheek against his. “It’s inevitable, brother mine. Mummy is already complaining that we’ve been gone for too long.”

“This was _her_ idea.” 

“And we should thank her for it.” Mycroft smiles. 

“Mpph.” Sherlock’s words are muffled when Mycroft bends down to capture his lips again.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

* * *

#  **4**

“I can’t believe Mummy wants to go on a cruise.” Sherlock whispers when he slips into Mycroft’s bed at the dead of night. “I can’t believe that is their idea of a fun time! A nice family trip!” The last sentence is uttered with disdain.

“Shush, Lock.” Mycroft presses a finger against Sherlock’s lips. “These walls aren’t soundproof. And… think about it. There will be two rooms. And…”

Oh. Of course. Mycroft and he would share a room. Amazing. And Mummy and Father would no doubt want to partake in all of the planned activities the cruise would have to offer, leaving them with plenty of ‘alone’ time. He would just have to do some sulking – not too much to put their parents off the trip, but just enough. These days, Sherlock doesn’t even want to sulk – but it’s for a good cause, anyways. 

“Don’t you have to go back to work soon?” 

“I will take all my holidays, Lock – but I will have to go back to London in the beginning of August.” Mycroft sighs with regret. People have memory-spans similar to that of a goldfish; therefore, he cannot be away for too long lest they forget about the things Mycroft could do and has done. 

“So a few days after we get back from Dublin?” 

Mycroft looks sharply at little brother. Sherlock sounds forlorn at the prospect of their time together ending. It’s a good thing. He knows how quickly Sherlock gets bored. Mycroft had thought about it – as much as he would like Sherlock to be  _ his _ for good – he knows that this is little brother’s first sexual relationship. There is a chance that Sherlock wouldn’t want to continue this; in that case, it would only be right to let him go – to allow him to be with someone he could be with openly. And not in the shadows. 

But over the last few days, Mycroft had come to adore his Sherlock. To tease him. Indulge him. 

It’s not just lust anymore.

“Yes.” 

Sherlock turns away a little, not wanting Mycroft to see his face. But, big brother grips him by his hips, turning him back toward him. “Look at me.” He demands. “Lockie.” 

The command in big brother’s tone causes Sherlock to look up. He has never felt so vulnerable in front of his brother, not even during the time when Mycroft had first taken him. 

Sherlock’s eyes, now more blue under the lamplight that Mycroft had been using to read earlier, gaze imploringly at him. All shields are down. Mycroft reaches over to rest his palm against Sherlock’s cheek, his fingers lightly caressing pale skin. “Stop that.” He chides gently, when Sherlock’s teeth nibble nervously at the corner of his bottom left lip. Mycroft uses his thumb to dislodge little brother’s poor abused lip, and he leans over – pressing a soothing kiss at the corner. “My beautiful boy.” His voice is a caress. Another kiss, this time at the opposite corner. “Don’t you know what you do to me?” He tilts Sherlock’s head slightly, and bestows another peck over a sensitive spot behind his brother’s ear, before sucking the delicate curve of said ear into his mouth, coaxing a sigh. “You drive me crazy.” 

The warm breath of Mycroft tickles against Sherlock's skin. He gasps when Mycroft flips him over, his hand simultaneously stroking over Sherlock's skin and unbuttoning the shirt. 

“That's not new.” Sherlock's breath hitches when Mycroft teases a nipple while kissing the nape of his neck. 

A gentle laugh escapes from Mycroft. Sherlock could feel the vibrations against his neck. 

“No, it's not.”

“Tell me something new.” The words leave Sherlock's mouth in a shudder, as Mycroft's devious hand travels further downward. He gasps when Mycroft slips his fingers beneath the band of his pyjama bottoms and palms at his cock. Of their own volition, Sherlock's hips buck into the touch. “God… Myc - ”

“Shush.” Mycroft reprimands again. Their parents are just down the hall. “You are gagging for this aren't you? Wanting your big brother’s cock up your arse?” 

“Oh gods, yes.” Sherlock breathes. “Oh yes.” 

Ever since they had been home, naughty scenarios had unfurled in his mind; of wanting to be bent over the nearest flat surface and fucked. To be forced down onto his knees while a prick fucks his throat. And there is tenderness too – of stolen kisses – bonus if they happened in the same room as their oblivious parents. 

“You want this, Lockie?” 

A finger slips behind his scrotal sac, and lightly rubs against his perineum before circling his rim. Sherlock lets out a loud shaky breath, while his hips seek out more, trying to capture the teasing digit into his hole. “My… please… oh please… fuck me.”

So lovely. Mycroft loves how wanton little brother has become. How shameless. No. Never mind the thought of letting Sherlock go. He will fight tooth and nail to keep him. Sherlock whines loudly when Mycroft removes his finger from his orifice. 

“Here’s something new, little brother. You can’t keep bloody quiet during a fuck. There is not one ounce of self-control within you.” There is just the perfect amount of inflammatory tone in Mycroft’s words.

“Can too.” Sherlock huffs, aggrieved. 

“The evidence begs to differ.” 

“The evidence can fuck itself.” 

“Language.” Mycroft tuts in disapproval. “Rude, nasty boy.”

“But, My – you like rude and nasty boys.” Sherlock smirks – now playful instead of sad. “But, Mycroft – I can keep my mouth shut. I can prove it.”

“Come here.” Mycroft wraps an arm around his brother’s legs and pulls him toward the edge of the bed. 

“Your desk, My – fuck me there.” 

Mycroft looks dubiously at his desk across the room. If their parents wake up, and hear them – it would be infinitely harder to hide the evidence of their activities. But the imploring eyes of Sherlock tips the balance, and he orders quietly. “Bend over my desk with your pyjamas around your ankles, Lock.”

Excited by the prospect, Sherlock goes. 

* * *

Sherlock is not a quiet creature by nature. Especially when big brother’s lube-slicked prick fucks into him, stretching him so brilliantly. It is so bloody hard to keep silent. He writhes in tortured ecstasy as Mycroft’s cock rubs him so perfectly in the right places, at a fixed pace calculated to drive him mad. He barely manages to shut his mouth when his jaw has fallen open – feeling a moan threatening to escape from within. 

Mycroft’s breaths are as steady as his thrusts, accompanied by the obscene squelching noises of his cock sliding against little brother’s well-lubricated walls, the slapping sounds of his bollocks hitting flesh and soft creak of the desk. God. It feels so damned good, fucking into Sherlock’s tight heat. 

And then he hears them – voices. Coming from his parents’ bedroom. It causes him to come to a halt – in shock. It is long past their parents’ bedtime. He could make out the gist of the conversation from where he stands. Mummy’s happiness that she has the family together for once to take a much needed vacation. Father’s shrewd observation that their sons seem to have resolved their differences. He stifles a laugh with his palm at the absurdity of it all, and Sherlock pushes backward, catching Mycroft off guard – forcing him to emit a guttural groan. 

“Now who can’t keep quiet?” 

Sherlock’s voice is too coherent. 

Too impertinent for his liking.

“Shush.” Mycroft increases the speed – now pounding into his brother – for they are both too far gone to stop their ill-advised activities. 

Sherlock scrambles to find some sort of grip on the smooth surface of the table as his brother fucks him mercilessly. There is none to be found – only a loose stack of papers, pens and a book. The far edge of the desk is flush with the wall. He hardly notices the gasp that leaves him when Mycroft pinches one of his nipples. And the moan that follows when the sounds of creaking wood from outside the room grow louder – Father had left the bedroom. It’s precarious, their situation – yet the idea that they could be caught is both horrible and terribly arousing – so much so that Sherlock finds himself close. God. Desperately, he bucks against his brother’s thrusts – a gradual crescendo of needy whines for more, knowing that he just needs a stroke or more of his cock to get off. 

“Quiet.” Mycroft almost hisses. “He will hear us.” 

“P-please. Please. My.” Sherlock whispers, almost sobbing – trying to rub his cock frantically on the wood of the desk – anything – anything for more… just enough to – 

“My–” The rest of his shout is choked off by Mycroft’s firm hand, as the clever thrusts of his brother’s cock tip him into a shuddering climax. 

Mycroft continues to fuck into Sherlock’s plush arse, chasing for his own completion – drawing a restricted whine from little brother every time he hits his overstimulated prostate, before finally spurting a generous amount of cum with a grunt. With his hands, he holds his brother still – while Sherlock squirms, still unused to the sensation of hot cum filling up his arse. 

“Sherlock. My Sherlock.” Mycroft whispers – surprised at the amount of tenderness that leaves his mouth. “So perfect for me. Cumming like that with only my cock fucking into you. So hot – brother.” Sitting down on his chair after his prick had slid out of his brother’s well-fucked hole, he brings Sherlock with him – gently stroking his curls. 

Sherlock almost purrs at the touch, feeling both sated and happy that he had pleased big brother. 

“Who is my beautiful boy? Hm?” Mycroft tilts Sherlock’s head up.

It takes Sherlock a moment to reply, unused to such questions. “Me?”

The tentative way that Sherlock says it almost breaks Mycroft in some way. He presses a kiss on his brother’s forehead. “Of course, you. So perfect.  _ Mine. _ ” Mycroft wraps his arms tightly around Sherlock – cradling his body. 

Sherlock clings onto Mycroft’s every word – storing them as treasures in his mind, knowing that he would want to revisit them in the future. The time where he had been  _ beautiful, perfect  _ – _ hot _ to someone as himself.

Outside the hallway, there is silence – suggesting that their parents had finally gone to bed. Perhaps it is fortuitous that Father had been the one to leave the bedroom, for he is well known for his absent-mindedness. 

* * *

* * *

#  **5**

“Did you pack yet, Lock?” 

Mycroft asks as he enters Sherlock’s bedroom. A suitcase lies closed on a rug. Little brother himself is sprawled on his bed. His naked body is covered only by a thin white bedsheet. So sheer, that it is translucent – giving Mycroft a partial view of pale beautiful flesh. The heat wave had died down somewhat over the past few days, but Sherlock is still dressed (or rather  _ undressed _ ) as if the high temperatures still persisted. 

He gets a nod. Curious, Mycroft flips the case open, and opens it – noticing that it is incredibly light for a almost two-week trip. The contents make Mycroft roll his eyes in exasperation. Two bottles of unopened lubricant (he isn’t even sure where Sherlock had managed to procure them), a box of condoms (even little brother had grown tired of cleaning, especially when having a fuck in semi-public locations – like the kitchen table this morning when both of their parents had gone to church), bedsheets, a dressing gown and a handful of… wooden clothespins? 

“Sherlock? This isn’t a joke, is it?” 

Little brother turns away from him, revealing his generous buttocks barely covered by his sheet. 

“What’s wrong with what I packed, Mycroft?” His voice is the epitome of innocence.

“You are such a child at times, Lockie.”

Coy blue-green and grey eyes look back at him. A smile (almost a smirk!) slowly forms on his brother’s lips. He inquires – his tone ever so salacious, “Aren’t you my  _ Daddy _ , anyways?”

Oh dear god. No. This has gone too far. And then, a hint of pink – tongue – darts from between Sherlock’s plush lips and leisurely traces his cupid’s bow. No doubt the hottest, the deepest pit in Hell awaits him in the afterlife (if such a concept exists). His brother sits up, and the sheet falls from him casually – but in a way that Mycroft suspects that Sherlock had invested some time into practicing before he had stepped into the room. 

How can little brother play him like this so easily? 

His brother pivots, arranging himself on the bed – this time on his hands and knees – exposing his bum. With his hands, he spreads his cheeks – revealing his rosy little hole – glistening with lubricant. It leaves Mycroft with no doubt as to what little brother had been doing instead of packing. 

Mummy is out gardening. Father is in his shed next to the lake on their property. It would be safe. To do whatever it is he needs to do. Little brother had upped the ante, so it would be his job to show just who  _ really _ had control. Sugar baby Lockie wants a wild fuck; Mycroft is happy to disappoint him. He picks up a few of the clothespins from his brother’s suitcase. 

Dissatisfied with Mycroft’s lack of response, Sherlock wiggles his bum enticingly. 

Mycroft slaps his palm against one of Sherlock’s buttocks. The resultant  _ smack _ is loud, but hardly painful. Sherlock groans in protest while Mycroft observes the slight reddening of the skin, and the delightful jiggle of the flesh. 

“I am afraid that you’ve been a very naughty boy – Lockie. Playing with yourself like this.” Mycroft gently slaps Sherlock’s hand away, when little brother attempts to play with his cock. “No touching what belongs to Daddy, understand?” 

It kills him somewhat to call himself ‘Daddy’. God. To do this under the same roof as their parents! How perverse. Well, granted they are both out – but still! 

Sherlock whines at Mycroft’s words, but his eyes – when they look back at him – look delighted. He says, contritely – eyes downcast. “I am sorry, Daddy. Couldn’t help myself. Won’t do it again.”

Yeah, right! “And what exactly are you planning with these, Lockie – baby?” He holds out the pins.

“Could you not deduce it, Daddy? You are the  _ smart one _ after all.” Sherlock gives an impertinent wink, forcing Mycroft to gently slap his other buttock. “Ouch! Myc–Daddy!” 

“You are such a brat.” Mycroft could not prevent the fondness from escaping. 

He drops the clothespins onto the small of Sherlock’s back, before reaching under to caress his brother’s chest. He pays extra attention to those slightly-erect nubs that Sherlock loves to have teased. Sherlock leans into his touch, as Mycroft gently rubs the nubs. He pinches them, rolls them between his fingers and adds just a bit of a twist, drawing mewls of pleasure mingled with the hint of pain. 

“Stop me if you can’t handle it.” Mycroft breaks out of character, whispering into Sherlock’s ear. 

His brother nods, as Mycroft takes a clothespin – opens its jaws, and carefully closes them against one erect nipple. Sherlock shuts his eyes, feeling the wood starting to pinch sensitive flesh. He had been curious, and had taken some of Mummy’s clothespins when she had been out hanging the laundry earlier in the day. A moan escapes him when the pressure tightens – and he gasps when Mycroft finally lets go. The pain oscillates.

“Breathe, little brother.” Mycroft gently strokes his brother’s curls. “Too much?”

Sherlock shakes his head. He breathes. His brother takes a second clothespin, and draws a circle around his areola, causing him to sigh. When Mycroft surprises him with a soft touch against his unclamped nipple – he arches his back with a barely-suppressed mewl. Damn. The mix of pleasure and agony is amazing. He whines softly when big brother clamps his other nipple – this time doing it quickly. God. Now both his nubs feel like someone has set them on fire. 

“Beautiful.” Mycroft smiles, only after he is sure Sherlock could take this. 

This is what little brother had wanted, anyways. Although he would have to tell Sherlock at some point that it isn’t necessary to goad him into trying new kinks. Without all this pomp and circumstance – and cheeky (cheesy?) seduction. This is what Sherlock likes to do – top from the bottom… Mycroft reflects. There’s a submissive streak in little brother that is wrapped in layers of tantalizing brattiness. 

“My?” Sherlock looks back at him again. “Daddy?” 

Oh. “You want some of this?” Mycroft wraps his hand loosely around little brother (sugar baby’s) prick and strokes for the sake of stroking. 

“My…!” Sherlock complains. “Please, more.” 

“Now, now – Lockie, I can’t give you everything, or you will end up a spoiled little boy.” Mycroft chides, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. 

Sherlock ruts into Mycroft’s hand, desperately seeking friction – needing more of the pleasurable stimulus to go along with the increasing ache from his clamped nubs. The pain changes, from agony to an indescribable aching pleasure that seems to be connected to his cock. God. Damn, Sherlock’s never felt anything like this. Just when he starts chasing towards the precipice, Mycroft removes his hand, and Sherlock whines in dismay. “Please. My.” 

“Please, what?” Mycroft asks, playing dumb, admiring the flush of colour on his brother’s cheeks. 

“Make me cum!” Sherlock almost cries.

Mycroft takes out his phone, pretending to look at a text. “Mm. If you would excuse me, little brother. I think there’s an important call I need to make –”

“Myc–roft!” The amount of frustration in Sherlock’s eyes is gorgeous. It is as close to crying as Mycroft had ever seen his brother since their childhood. “Fine – I will just finish myself.” Sherlock huffs breathily seconds later.

“Don’t you dare.” Mycroft grabs both of his brother’s wrists before Sherlock could carry out his threat and they tussle for a bit on the bed – wrestling for control, minding the clothespins – making an absolute mess out of Sherlock’s originally neat bed. With one hand pinning his brother’s wrists to the bed, Mycroft hastily unfastens his belt and unzips, freeing his own hard prick. 

Sherlock eyes the freed member hungrily. “Fuck me, big brother. Fuck me – Daddy!”

God. It would be so easy. Just to sink into that lovely heat – already so slick for him. No. He can’t just keep letting Sherlock get his way. It would set a bad precedent. A compromise then. He lets go of Sherlock’s hands and guides his brother’s hips – directing him to straddle his thighs. Sherlock lets out a sigh of relief – just as Mycroft groans as the already loosened hole engulfs his cock. 

With desperation, Sherlock rides Mycroft’s cock. He bounces so vigorously that he feels as if he is going to fly off the bed. The pain, the blissful way that Mycroft’s cock rubs at him internally – the growing aching need to cum spurs him forward. 

The sight is stunning. Mycroft tries hard to keep his hips still – letting Sherlock do all the work for once. His brother’s curls are a mess, his face reddened with exertion and need as he struggles to time his breaths and the clothespins bob up and down along with his dripping prick. 

“Come on, beautiful boy.” Mycroft croons, as Sherlock shifts a bit to change the angle – needing just a little bit more. His brother’s breaths grow harsher as his hips begin to stutter. “Cum for me, precious one, come!” 

The authority imbued into the last word sends Sherlock over with a trembling gasp. This is the second time he had managed to cum untouched, simply from Mycroft’s cock alone. His brother follows him, filling him up with hot ejaculate. A few seconds later, Sherlock finds himself on his back – and he whines when Mycroft plucks the clothespins off his nipples, feeling the agony of the blood reperfusing. Mycroft presses apologetic little licks and kisses onto the abused flesh. 

His nipples still ache, but it’s a pleasant one – Sherlock knows they will remind him for a few hours at least of this lovely encounter. He sighs, as Mycroft’s fingers now lightly brush against the sensitized nubs – feeling each sensation ten-fold. His brother’s lips capture his in an ardent kiss – he’s never felt so indulged nor so cared for in his life. 

“Mm… feels good.” Sherlock mumbles when Mycroft releases his lips.

“Good. My precious one.” Mycroft smiles at him. 

The fondness in everything that big brother seems to do fills him with a warm fuzzy feeling. 

Of belonging. 

Perhaps, of adoration. 

“I am sorry.” Sherlock finds himself saying, looking at the cum-stain on his brother’s ridiculously pricey bespoke shirt. 

“No harm done. I will wash it afterwards, Lockie. Occupational hazard.” 

Sherlock leans into Mycroft’s touch, when his brother’s big hand tenderly cups his face. 

They both smile at each other – Mycroft feeling rather like a silly adolescent on his first date. Sherlock’s eyes twinkle like the stars on a cloudless day in the countryside. He rather likes this Sherlockian state – the one where he has managed to shag all the impudence and cheekiness out of his brother. 

A state well-won. 

“Will you pack properly now, like Daddy’s good boy?” 

Sherlock grins. It reaches his eyes – causing them to crinkle. “I’ve corrupted you.”

A chuckle leaves him. “Perhaps.” Mycroft then adds, remembering the lacklustre garments that he had seen in little brother’s wardrobe earlier. “I will buy you new clothes. When I get back to London.”

“My togs not classy enough for you, big brother?”

“Ha.” Mycroft exhales. “I will buy you a pair or two of proper nipple clamps too. Proper toys for a slutty sugar boy.” 

“Sounds promising.” Sherlock says noncommittally – not daring to press his luck. 

It would hurt too much this way. 

Hoping for more. 

The opening of a door in the distance spurs them both into action. They both jump out of the bed. Before Mycroft leaves the room to wash away the evidence of their encounter, Sherlock says. “I will do a better job of packing for your future inspection.” 

“Do that, then.” 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

* * *

#  **6**

This is beyond tedious.

Sherlock sighs as Mummy eagerly drags them through the still-docked cruise-ship, extolling upon the luxurious decor, the spaciousness and the activities on offer in each area they pass by at great length. She holds a flute of complimentary champagne in her manicured hand – her free hand gesticulating along with her words. He had long tuned her out. Father simply nods along while Mycroft seems to be the only one really listening – although Sherlock is sure that this is a trick big brother had acquired during his days in the government. 

When they are out on the deck – port side – facing away from the harbour, Sherlock walks over to the rails overlooking the sea. The hot sun shines downward, tempered by the cool breezes over the waters. It is refreshing. He reaches down to straighten his too-large shirt – Mummy does not have the knack of purchasing clothes that fit him well. Footsteps approach, and he turns around slightly, seeing Mycroft. Big brother, resplendently attired in a three-piece suit, turns him around with a gentle touch – and Sherlock groans, seeing the camera in Mummy’s hand. He does not enjoy having his picture taken. Scrawny – he would look – swimming in his ill-fitted clothing. A contrast to Mycroft’s perfectly fitted garments and perfect proportions. 

Man and boy. 

“Sherlock, wouldn’t you just smile?” Mummy demands. 

Something brushes against his bottom and squeezes – it takes all of Sherlock’s willpower not to gasp at this affront to his derrière. The tiniest of smiles (mischievous?) is formed by Mycroft’s lips. Somehow, he finds himself smiling back, and after the snap of Mummy’s camera – big brother gives him the quickest of winks before walking off – pretending nothing had transpired between them.

* * *

Little brother is up to his old tricks again. Stretching, fussing with his shirt and sighing to name a few. When Mummy contemplates a necklace at the jewelry shop, Sherlock bends down, pretending to tie his shoelaces – giving Mycroft a magnificent view of his arse. When he stands up, he casually brushes his hair away from his forehead before licking his lips. It’s ridiculous – and neither of their parents are none-the-wiser. And when Father turns away to examine a watch in the display case, Sherlock blows a kiss in Mycroft’s direction, before wiggling an eyebrow – _can we get out of here?_

Mycroft shakes his head, and Sherlock pouts, folding his arms against his chest. When Mummy sails out of the shop, and to another display of ornate fans – Sherlock leans on a nearby display case filled with porcelain. He sulks. But when Mycroft walks by, he wiggles his bum enticingly, and Mycroft has never had such an urge to spank that impertinent bottom. He clenches his right hand into a fist – and then relaxes – letting the urge pass by. Mummy grabs Father and walks to another case, featuring rings studded with gemstones – presumably to talk him into buying her one. Sherlock’s head darts to and fro, and seeing no one paying attention to them, his hand trails lower, following a path down his chest and abdomen, before deliberately palming his cock. 

That’s it. 

Mycroft grabs Sherlock by the wrist, and then he taps Father’s shoulder and whispers something about seeing them at dinner at the restaurant on the aft side half-an-hour from now. Father nods agreeably, and Mycroft drags a faux-resisting Sherlock all the way back to their luxurious suite, a few floors up. 

* * *

“What were you thinking?” Mycroft almost growls in Sherlock’s ear when the suite door finally shuts behind them. “Doing that in public?” 

“Bored.” Sherlock has his arms hugging his chest – looking absolutely nonchalant. 

Unrepentant. 

“You naughty slut. I taught you better.”

Little brother rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever am I going to do with you, Lockie? Hm.” Mycroft sighs. 

He can’t keep giving in like this. Little brother’s behaviour is absolutely appalling. 

“You could… I dunno, fuck me?” Sherlock asks, his eyes hopeful. 

Mycroft takes the three steps separating him and his brother and with a sudden practiced movement, has Sherlock against the nearest wall – his hands pinned over his head. Sherlock’s breaths grow harsher, his pupils dilated with arousal. This isn’t something Mycroft should enjoy, but any guilt is assuaged by the fact that little brother loves it – being manhandled. 

He rests his hand against his brother’s chest – feeling the bony edges beneath warm soft skin flanked by the edges of Sherlock’s shirt. The racing beat of Sherlock’s heart pulses against his own flesh. They are so close that Mycroft can feel his brother’s trembling breath ghost across his face. Smell the taste of cheap complimentary cocktails and the barest hints of the cigarette that Sherlock had filched from Father’s secret stash before they had left the house earlier in the day. 

Fragile, his brother seems under his scrutiny. 

It thrills him. Having Sherlock in his thrall. 

Releasing his own breath, Mycroft slowly inches his hand upward against the clavicles, the trapezius before resting his palm against Sherlock’s bare throat. He presses ever so lightly, and Sherlock’s eyes widen. The carotids beat beneath his digits, and the shudders of Sherlock’s respirations transmit themselves to Mycroft. There’s no protest – no fight in Sherlock – to be handled like this. His brother’s irises, darkening by the minute, gaze up at him with the utmost trust. Turning his hand, he cups his brother’s chin.

“So gorgeous, brother mine.” Mycroft whispers. “My darling boy.” 

With another deft adjustment, he brings their lips together, and he devours Sherlock’s lips and later, his mouth thoroughly – immersing himself completely in the taste, the feel of little brother – forgetting why he had been annoyed with little brother in the first place. When he finally releases his grip on little brother, Sherlock’s curls are in utter disarray; he looks like a wreck. He stands unsteadily, rather like a newborn giraffe finding their hooves. Adorable. 

Sherlock’s kiss-swollen lips part and close – as if attempting to say something. Mycroft strokes his way down Sherlock’s taut abdomen from behind, unfastening little brother’s belt, and sliding his hand through his trousers to caress the erect, already weeping cock beneath the fabric of his pants. 

“Daddy… please.” Sherlock gasps. “So close. Please. More.”

Mycroft frigs the prick at the same rate, letting his own head rest against his brother. Sherlock’s hips buck wildly, eagerly trying to get more friction – but Mycroft keeps a firm arm around little brother’s torso, keeping him from getting what he wants; what he needs. And then, when Sherlock thinks that the end is near, Mycroft removes his hand – finally remembering that he had intended to teach his brother a lesson. 

Mycroft takes a step or two away, and Sherlock whines plaintively. “Mycroft!?!” 

Slowly Mycroft turns to look at the clock – ticking away the seconds, and he replies, rather casually. Nevertheless, his statement is true. “It’s time to get dressed and go for dinner, little brother.”

“Brother – Daddy!” Sherlock looks like an abandoned puppy. “Please.” 

When little brother’s hand goes toward his own aching member, Mycroft immediately grabs his wrist. And then the other, when Sherlock makes a second attempt. “No. Lockie. If you finish yourself now, I won’t do anything with you tonight. You’ve been a shameless tart all afternoon. You know it. Instead, after dinner – I am going to go to the lounge and have some scotch, and catch up on some work from the office. Maybe I will play some shuffleboard with Father in the rec space. And then I will shower and sleep. How about that?” 

“Myc…” Sherlock sounds defeated and sad. Appearing so young and innocent under the suite’s lights. It tugs on Mycroft’s heartstrings. “Please…” He drops to the floor on his knees, wrapping his arms around Mycroft’s thighs, pressing his face against Mycroft’s crotch, rubbing against the sensitive wool-clad bulge. “I will be good. I promise. I just want…”

“What do you want, Lock?” Mycroft’s fingers ensnare themselves within the silky soft strands of his brother’s hair. 

Sherlock looks downward, feeling like he could no longer speak. He wants things from Mycroft. Things that he finds that he cannot articulate. Things alien to his present state of existence. It terrifies him beyond reason. Perhaps a four letter word. A delicious tug of his hair – sending a most pleasurable sensation all the way down to the tips of his toes – brings his head up. It brings his eyes directly in line with Mycroft’s blue ones which smolder with an intensity that Sherlock had never seen.

“Tell me.” Big brother’s voice is quiet. But the authority within his words is undeniable. It gives Sherlock the impression that he hadn’t been too off the mark when he had joked about Mycroft controlling the government on the first day everything had begun.

“I-I…” Sherlock chews at his bottom lip nervously. His throat seems to have frozen up again. 

Mycroft bends down slightly to pull the abused lip away. “Stop that – Lockie, baby.”

“I… can’t.” Sherlock feels absolutely helpless. Most embarrassingly, he could feel something wet escape from the corner of his eye. He’s out of his league. Big brother deserved better. 

“Lock.” Mycroft kneels down, gently brushing the tear away from his face – suddenly feeling bad about denying Sherlock. His brother is so young. So inexperienced. What is a little brattiness anyways? “My Lockie. It’s alright. Tell me when you are ready, okay? Do you want to cum?”

Sherlock shakes his head. The moment had passed. “No.”

“I will make it up to you – later.” Mycroft tilts his head slightly to brush his lips against little brother’s cheek. “If we don’t go now, our parents will get suspicious.”

“You promise?” Much to Sherlock’s horror, he lisps the end of the last syllable. He hasn’t done that since he had been a toddler, occasionally stumbling over his syllables in his eagerness to express himself. The warmth of the flush blooms in his cheeks. But big brother pays no heed, giving him the fondest of looks.

“Oh, Lockie.” Mycroft helps him up from the floor. “Course.” Another peck on the opposite cheek. “Let’s get ready.” 

* * *

* * *

#  **7**

The clear black sky twinkles with stars. 

Sherlock slumps down in the deserted lounge at the top deck of the ship on a wicker sofa with plush neutral-coloured cushions. The light is off. He faces aft, the rear end of the ship. Arms crossed, he sulks. Should have known better, he thinks. His brother had been distant at dinner, talking with Mummy and Father on an eclectic variety of subjects – including the opera that they had all decided to go see – The Marriage of Figaro – after dinner. Sherlock had played listlessly with his sea bream and the bed of vegetables it laid upon and had barely refrained from making a bratty comment about the cake Mycroft had devoured at the end. 

Why does he feel this way? Especially now? From the view of their parents, Mycroft and he do not interact much, ever since big brother had left home for school all those years ago. They had roles to play. It’s not like they could ever come out to their parents about the sexual way their relationship had developed. And, even then – this change in their relations is not guaranteed to last. He hugs a nearby cushion to his chest. The idea fills him with dread. The idea of ending what he has with Mycroft. It will come soon. He knows. Big brother will return to London. Sherlock will go back to Cambridge for his studies. Mycroft will forget about him, immersed in all the games of power and influence that is par for the course amongst the wealthy and powerful. Undoubtedly, someone else would eventually warm Mycroft’s handsome bed. And… he – Sherlock – would be alone, once more. 

There is a sudden pressure applied to his shoulder. It catches him off guard. His heart starts hammering in his chest. Then there is the scent. The expensive notes of Mycroft’s cologne and aftershave. The opera certainly isn’t over now. Barely half an hour had elapsed since Sherlock had left them at the theatre. 

“Breathe, Lockie. Oxygen is vital to life.” 

Sherlock exhales the breath he had been holding. 

“Breathing is boring.” His tone is flippant. He then asks. “Why are you here?”

“You were upset.” A warm hand lightly touches Sherlock’s cheek. Reflexively, Sherlock leans into it. A thumb lightly strokes a cheekbone. His brother continues. “Even Mummy mentioned something about it –”

“So you came up here because Mummy asked you to? To make sure I am not off trying to score hard drugs from someone?” Sherlock cannot help but sound bitter. 

“Lock. No. Of course not.” Mycroft had walked around, squatting to meet Sherlock at eye-level. There is a serious sort of look in his eyes. “I do care, you know... About you.” The words come out with uncharacteristic difficulty. “Lockie… what’s wrong?” 

Sherlock shrugs, feeling hopeless. How could he even answer that? He couldn’t even articulate a reason for why he feels the way he does. Emotions. Not his forte by any means. They colour his thinking, preventing him from dealing with the factual. “I don’t know.” He finally says, his voice weak to his own ears. 

“Try. You can tell me anything.” 

“I will miss you.” The words leave him in a rush. It reveals too much, yet too little. Oh god. Did he really utter that? 

A hand firmly grabs his wrist when Sherlock tries to flee. 

“Lockie.” Mycroft says, his eyes unfathomable under the starlight. “Sherlock. I will miss you too.” 

His brother leans forward, and Sherlock meets him, their lips tangling in a desperate sort of kiss. Conveying things that cannot be described with their limited vernacular. Hands are caressing his cheeks, guiding his head. It feels good. Amazing. A hand slides over the nape of his neck and slips in between his curls, and Sherlock almost purrs. When they break apart, Sherlock can see his brother’s grin. 

“You are gorgeous when you smile.” Mycroft says quietly. “My lovely boy.” 

Sherlock pouts in rebellion and Mycroft laughs – looking and sounding nothing like the civil servant he is. His brother moves to sit on the couch, and Sherlock finds himself sprawled over Mycroft’s lap. Possessive arms hold him firmly and securely, while Sherlock sighs – letting his head rest on a broad shoulder. 

“Cute little brother.” Mycroft murmurs.

“M’not cute.” Sherlock huffs. 

“So very cute. My adorable darling boy.” A hand reaches over to ruffle Sherlock’s curls. 

“This is inane.” Sherlock replies – despite the contentment he feels at his brother’s fond words. He curls up closer to Mycroft, wanting there to be no spaces between them. No degree of separation. Loving the attention Mycroft lavishes upon him. 

“Only the truth.” Sherlock can hear Mycroft’s smirk. 

“Everyone lies.” Would Mycroft really miss him? 

“And here I thought you grew out of that contradictory phase of your life. When you were a toddler, and said ‘no’ to everything.” Mycroft says, amused. “But, I see now that being difficult is a way of life for you.”

“I live to please.” 

“I know you do.” Mycroft’s fingers are making quick work of the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. 

The way big brother says his words sends a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock gasps when Mycroft’s palm touches bare skin. It is electrifying to do this in a public space, even though no one is here. The gusts outside tonight are far too exuberant for most, as everyone had either gone to the opera, the casino or even the party going on at a lower deck held for a younger set, where the swimming pool is located in the middle of the ship. Strains of pop music could barely be heard from where they are, over the whistling of the winds. 

The journey of Mycroft’s hand is unbearably slow. It caresses his chest, the fingertips drawing teasing leisurely circles around a nipple. Sherlock arches his back, trying to get Mycroft to give him the stimulation he craves, but his brother’s other arm tightens around him. 

“Stay still.” Mycroft whispers in his ear. “Patience.”

A little whine escapes from Sherlock as a finger flicks at his nipple. He sighs when Mycroft’s other hand travels downward and gently cups the bulge beginning to grow beneath his trousers. Trying not to squirm when Mycroft squeezes him, his other hand lightly pulling and pinching Sherlock’s nub. A breathy little gasp is wrenched from Sherlock when his brother suddenly pinches and twists hard on his nub – sending a jolt of pain/pleasure down to his groin. 

“Mm… you like that, Lockie? Having your nipples hurt like this?” 

Sherlock nods, feeling a delicious achy feeling radiating from the abused flesh, which is currently being soothed by gentle touches. 

“I did tell you to stay still.” Mycroft’s voice is teasing. “Are you not capable of obeying simple instructions?” 

“I like being difficult, as you’ve mentioned earlier – My…”

“Somehow, I don’t think so.” Mycroft replies, shrewdly. “No. You like being naughty for attention. My attention. You want to rile me up? Make your Daddy do nasty unspeakable things to you, Lockie baby?” 

“Yes.” Damn it. Sherlock lisps again. This is embarrassing.

Mycroft merely looks indulgently at him. Sherlock wonders if Mycroft could see the flush staining his face, which no doubt extends further downward. 

“I want you to turn towards the door, Lockie. Keep those elbows of yours propped against the top of the sofa.” Mycroft orders, and Sherlock hastily complies – having an idea that something most enjoyable is about to happen. 

The outside is still deserted. Sherlock could barely make out the details of the deck from where he is kneeling on one of the sofa’s cushions, illuminated by natural light, and a few dim lanterns to help people find their way. 

“And, Sherlock. I want you to stay still. Understand? And quiet.”

“And… If I don’t comply?” Sherlock asks, brattishly. 

“Then I will stop and leave my poor bratty boy bereft. We don’t want that, do we?” The tone is warm, just as warm as the hands that slide beneath his shirt. Caressing the planes of his back, his sensitive sides, down to his hips, before undoing his fly. 

Cool air hits his privates, now exposed – causes Sherlock to shudder and muffle a noise which had almost come out. Fingers cup and squeeze his buttocks, as he continues to stare straight ahead. If people come close enough, they will see him. In another corner of the room, there is a spiral staircase that leads downward to a more populated area. If he strains his ears, he can make out the clinking of glasses, the jazzy tunes from a tenor sax player and raucous laughter from the lounge below. 

A gentle pressure nudges against his inner thighs, forcing them to part. The sensation of a cool lubricated finger swirling around his perianal region shocks him, impelling him to gasp as his mouth falls slack. The idea that big brother had been carrying around such supplies is terribly arousing...

“Hush, Lockie.” Mycroft tuts in disappointment and removes his digit. 

“Sorry, won’t happen again…” Sherlock mumbles. 

“Better not.” 

The finger returns, lightly brushing against his hole. It’s hard. To not move. His whole body – now wired over the past few weeks to enjoy these sensations and to shamelessly seek out more – trembles with the effort required. And then – something warm and wet breaches his hole. Tongue. Sherlock’s hips involuntarily buck as the strong muscle circles his tight sphincter, and when the tongue withdraws – he whines. Mycroft chuckles with amusement.

Before Sherlock could beg, the tongue returns after his brother spreads his arse cheeks out wide. The licks are salaciously slow, no doubt a nefarious plot to drive him mad. His cock hardens under Mycroft’s carefully calculated ministrations. He could only imagine; Mycroft on his knees behind him, in his exquisitely tailored three-piece suit complete with striped tie – his face buried in Sherlock’s arse. 

From the distance, Sherlock can make out a silhouette in the distance, growing larger with the second. Judging by the outline of the person’s attire – it is a crew member making their rounds. Really, he should tell his brother to stop – but the sheer _naughtiness_ of what is going on here paralyzes him with arousal. He can even feel precum drip from his slit. The tongue in his orifice has quickened its strokes; Mycroft is really eating him out now. Sherlock wants more. His hips desperately wanting to rut against the fabric of the sofa in front of it. When a slick finger enters his hole – further stretching him, Sherlock reflexively humps the sofa while swallowing a groan. The footsteps grow louder, audible against the backdrop of the wind. Sherlock can make out the person as female, with curls tumbling down her shoulders. God – what if they get caught?

“My –” Sherlock quickly reaches over to clamp his palm over his mouth when his brother’s digit and tongue retreats once more. Please, Mycroft – give me more. He thinks desperately. The peak is approaching. 

His brother sighs, just as the crew member turns to walk toward the other side of the ship – having not seen them at all through the glass. “Do you not know what quiet means?”

“Definitely not.” Sherlock smirks, before he gasps – closing his eyes tight to savour the pleasure, when a hand strokes his cock. 

“Mm… so responsive. So tasty. Just want to eat you.” Mycroft croons from below, continuing the delicious amount of friction. “You get off on this, don’t you – Lockie? The idea of getting caught with your pants down. You naughty, slutty boy. What would Mummy say?”

What would Mummy say, indeed! 

“Don’t cum unless I tell you to, Lockie. Show me you have some semblance of self-control.” Mycroft issues, and Sherlock sighs inwardly – knowing that this is probably something else he is doomed to fail at. 

Sherlock yelps when he feels fingers pinch harshly at his bottom. “Answer me, boy.” 

“Yes, Daddy.” 

“Good boy.” Mycroft continues his merciless torment of Sherlock’s prick. “What do you want, boy?” 

“Your cock!” Sherlock doesn’t even have to think. 

“You always want Daddy’s cock.” 

Sherlock can only nod. He wants to be fucked. Taken. It’s outrageous – almost, how he had gone from celibate to craving sex multiple times a day. Be his brother’s (Daddy’s) total bottom boy. 

“Who do you belong to, Sherlock?” There's just something a little possessive in Mycroft’s tone that sends all those tingling feelings down Sherlock’s entire body. 

“You.” He whispers; as the syllable escapes, he only realizes how much he wants it to be true. And not just for today. 

For longer. Much longer. 

“Can’t hear you.” Sherlock can hear Mycroft stand up. 

“You…!” He cries out when Mycroft thrusts into him from behind with one smooth motion – big brother’s arms suddenly wrapped around him – securely. As if to never let him go. 

His brother fucks into him ruthlessly, and it takes Sherlock a herculean effort to keep his noises to a minimum. He feels a sharp pinch at his thigh when he is about to climax – pulling him back from the brink. 

“Not yet.” Mycroft grunts.

“Please, Daddy – please.” Sherlock wants to cry. 

And then his brother thrusts once again, hitting him in just that right spot – and there is no way that Sherlock could hold on any longer. He comes hard – his ejaculate getting mostly onto his bare belly. Mycroft continues to fuck him as he searches for his own completion – only emitting grunts that sound suspiciously like ‘mine’ and ‘Lock’. When his brother finally comes, Sherlock squirms – feeling that gush of hot cum fill his arse and a handkerchief being applied to his bottom when Mycroft slips out, catching the dripping cum from his hole. Those arms are still enveloped around him. A finger brushes against his cheek, slightly slick from the lubricant – and Sherlock realizes only then that a few tears had slipped from his eyes. 

“My good boy.” Mycroft whispers. “So good for me. Perfect.” 

“My... “ Sherlock whimpers, burying his face against his brother’s shoulder. He just wants to be held and… loved? Is that what he wants? From his brother? It surprises him. The revelation. But at the same time… it doesn’t. Who else would ever understand him like Mycroft would? 

“Sh… it’s okay.” His brother strokes Sherlock’s sweaty forehead. “Mine.” 

“Want to be yours forever…” Sherlock is appalled at how easily that slipped out of his post-coital state.

“Forever is a long –” 

And, with that – Sherlock manages to escape from his brother’s now lax arms and stumbles out of the room and onto the windy deck. Rejection is something he couldn’t stand to take. Stupid. Why couldn’t he ever have control over himself like big brother could? 

Miserable, he runs – unsure of where he should go. 

* * *

Sherlock had hastily dashed out of the room, his trembling hands pulling up his pants and trousers before fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. 

Mycroft had been too slow to stop him; his post-coital reflexes had been too sluggish to do so. God. He rests his forehead against his palms, after having cleaned and tucked himself back into his woolen trousers. 

What was that? For all his intelligence, he hadn’t realized the true issue behind his brother’s behaviour had been this. Sentiment. Ghastly stuff. Something he had eschewed, having seen its impact on the people around him at work. A weakness. A liability. He had witnessed many a promising agent throw away years of hard work for such feelings. But all Mycroft could see now is the flash of embarrassment and hurt in Sherlock’s beautiful face before he had run off. How affectionate little brother had been, curled up against Mycroft’s chest – willing to be petted and spoiled. He had always been a possessive person – someone who had always got what he wanted at the end. And he had wanted Sherlock. His Lockie. Yet, want and possession isn’t the same as sentiment and good lord – love… is it not? 

Standing up slowly, he uses the stairs rather than the outdoor path Sherlock had taken. No. It’s too late for him. He cannot let little brother go like this. 

* * *

Mycroft eventually finds Sherlock back in their room, curled up in his bed – facing the wall. Only his wild curls poke out from under his blanket. Gingerly, he walks toward the lump in the bed. Sherlock doesn’t stir. He sits down on the mattress. 

“Sherlock…” 

“Mpph… go away…” Sherlock mumbles within his cocoon. He turns further away with his arms crossed. No. He doesn’t want to show Mycroft the evidence of the tears he had shed – nor have a conversation about his unreciprocated feelings or the inappropriateness of their relationship. There is no need to rub salt into his wounds, thank you very much. Seeing that his brother isn’t moving, he adds. “Please. Just leave me, Mycroft. Just… forget it. Delete it. What I said.” Fisting the blanket in his fists, Sherlock buries himself further – wishing to be anywhere but here. 

“No. Sherlock. I am not leaving.” Mycroft says firmly. 

“Then…” Sherlock flings the blanket off dramatically. “I will go.” 

Mycroft grabs his brother by the ankle before he could crawl away. Sherlock fights to get away – trying every trick he knows – but Mycroft manages to pin him down a few minutes in. There’s a defiant look in Sherlock’s eyes, as Mycroft straddles his thighs to prevent him from escaping. 

“Don’t be cruel, Mycroft.” The voice is resigned. Brittle. 

“Would you just listen to me for once, you stubborn boy?”

“Well, there’s nothing else I can do.” The bitterness in Sherlock’s tone causes a strange sort of sensation to rise into Mycroft’s chest. Nausea. “Say what you came to say then. That I am too young to know better. That this is inappropriate. That it wouldn’t last. That it didn’t mean –”

“Lockie…” Mycroft interrupts. “No. That’s not what I want to say.” He swallows. Like Sherlock, this is uncharted territory for him. Sailing in treacherous seas. Here be monsters. “I… I do want you to be mine. For whatever duration you wish it.” Seeing the surprise in Sherlock’s face, he continues in a softer tone. “You are young, Lock. The world is your oyster. You might not believe it, but you are beautiful and gorgeous and every other word that exists along those lines. Brilliant. Incandescent. And I won’t be the only one that thinks so. If we have this – then you know that we can never tell anyone about this. About us.”

“I know.” Sherlock sits up when Mycroft’s hold on him slackens. “I do know, big brother. I still want it. Want you. I adore you, My. Always had.” 

Mycroft could see the redness and crust in Sherlock’s eyes and long lashes, not to mention the snot – the signs of what little brother had been doing before Mycroft had found him. 

“I might even lo–” It’s Sherlock’s turn to swallow uncomfortably. Powerful words that neither are ready for. 

“It’s okay, Lock.” Mycroft holds out his arms slightly, and Sherlock immediately comes to him. “We will learn together. About sentiment.” He brushes the crud off Sherlock’s eyelids while admiring the smile that had bloomed ever so slowly on little brother’s face. About how it seems to go all the way to his iridescent eyes – crinkling the skin around those orbs. 

The genuineness of it all.

All for him. 

A warmth suffuses him; he feels rather like the witness of a glorious sunrise.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

* * *

#  **8**

“You are leaving tomorrow.”

Mycroft turns to look at his brother. They are sitting on a crisp white bed sheet next to the lake near their parents’ house. The British oak towers over them, sheltering them from the rays of the summer sun. There are crickets, birds rustling in the branches – singing to delineate their territories and the occasional bumblebee – flying to and fro in their endless quest for pollen. The idyllic summer day starkly contrasts with Sherlock’s forlorn tone. It both makes him both happy (that his brother isn’t bored yet of their relationship) and sad – for he would do almost anything to make him smile. 

“Come to London with me.” Mycroft finds himself offering spontaneously. It would be nice to have someone wait for him at the end of the day, instead of coming home to an empty flat. “Before you head back to Cambridge. I won’t be home all day, but we can at least have the evenings and weekends for the rest of the month.” 

“You… mean it.” Sherlock brightens somewhat.

“Of course. I did promise to get you some new clothes. Good Lord, Mummy has awful taste.” Mycroft looks disdainfully at Sherlock’s shirt – which has a colour, fit and texture that reminds him of a potato sack. But then again, little brother would look lovely in anything. 

No, he will take Sherlock to his own personal tailor and get some bespoke garments to show off that lovely body of his. And if he can be sly enough, get Sherlock into a suit. A tall order for a boy who likes to run around starkers. Especially when sex had been added to the equation.

“My!” 

Mycroft finds himself with a lapful of adoring baby brother – and they just simply trade sweet kisses for who knows how long. Over the past few weeks, they had grown more familiar – intimate – with each other. It is hard, when they are in front of Mummy and Father to not touch each other. To not hold hands. Not to smile like a pair of lovestruck idiots at each other. His arms hold Sherlock close to him, and he buries his own face into Sherlock’s nape reminiscing in all the memories they had made over the summer. 

“You will take me out? Eat nice things? Take me to the Queen?” Sherlock asks, his voice muffled against Mycroft’s body. 

“Anything.” Mycroft offers – he would like that. To spoil his Lockie in every way. 

“Mm… Mycroft – you are the best of sugar Daddies – ouch!” Sherlock complains when Mycroft gently swats his bum. 

Ah. Some things will always remain delightfully the same. 

* * *

Sherlock blinks at the mirror. The boy (man?) reflected back looks foreign to him. He looks older in his new clothes – a dark suit perfectly tailored to his proportions, a shirt in a daring shade of pink that Mycroft and he had rowed over for five minutes at the shop and a pair of comfortable (but expensive) leather oxfords. A hand lightly pushes against his spine, forcing him to straighten his back, as Mycroft appears in the mirror with a navy-blue tie with dots in hand. 

“Keep slouching like that, Lockie – and I will make you wear a corset.” Mycroft says sternly, as Sherlock rolls his eyes. Little brother’s posture is absolutely horrendous. He then adds. “I only have your spine’s best interests in mind.”

“I think, brother – you are just a pervert.” Sherlock smirks. 

“Why, Sherlock – I thought you knew that already.” Mycroft purrs before reaching out to smooth the fabric of Sherlock’s new shirt. When he puts the tie around his brother’s neck, Sherlock gives him a look – _must we?_

“For me, brother?” 

His brother must have a suit fetish, in addition to a lingerie – Sherlock deduces. Mycroft had literally showered him with gifts the past few days – bespoke clothes, shoes, fancy dinners, treats and flowers to name some. Even a Sartory bow for his Strad that could produce such an extensive range of sounds from delicate to viciously aggressive. Sherlock had merely been eyeing it in the antiques store they were at, wondering how such an instrument would feel in his hand and across his violin strings – and Mycroft had bought it for him the next day after work. It had a six-figure price tag. And then there had been that day Mycroft had taken him into a high-end sex shop. Sherlock had never blushed so hard in his life, while Mycroft examined everything with a cool eye – as unflappable as ever before making a few more purchases that Sherlock swears must correlate with how much his face had burned.

Before they had left their parents’ house – Mummy had said to him: _Don’t let Mycroft do everything, Sherlock. He works too hard._ He hadn’t thought too much of it – but now he wonders… is Mummy trying to give him relationship advice for dating his own brother? Oh god, no. He shakes his head. Crazy. Ludicrous. 

“I will make it worth your while…” Mycroft’s voice is suddenly all silk as his warm breath caresses Sherlock’s sensitive ear, bringing him back to the proceedings at hand. 

“Fine.” Sherlock acquises, trying to hide his evident arousal as Mycroft carefully knots the tie around his neck. Half-Windsor – not the full that he would tie for himself. Hm… interesting. It would look too casual for Mycroft, but it fits him. 

“You look so good, Lockie. So handsome.” Mycroft continues to whisper in Sherlock’s ear, letting his fingers stroke the full length of his tie – savouring the expensive texture of the silk. “What did you do with yourself today, while I was gone?” 

Sherlock gulps when Mycroft’s movements with his tie begin to look suggestive – caressing the fabric as he would with Sherlock’s cock – how is it possible to be so hot and bothered without Mycroft actually touching him? And then, his brother tugs slowly, causing the tie to constrict against his neck – and he gasps, beginning to feel heady with the combination of arousal and the lack of oxygen. Ecstasy. That’s what it feels like. Like being high. Mycroft lets go, and Sherlock slumps against his brother – who catches him instantly in his strong arms.

“Mm... “ Sherlock mumbles, taking a moment to recover. His brother’s lips brush against his curls, and he can feel the affection radiating from him. Trust. He trusts Mycroft implicitly. Big brother would never harm him. Finding his words, he says. “I thought about you. Things that you would do to me when you get home.” He twists slightly, so that he can see Mycroft’s face. “Want you, Daddy.”

Mycroft smiles, as Sherlock’s eyes look imploringly at him. Ah. Such a slutty boy he has. He looks forward to this every day – having Sherlock like this. So pliant in his arms. He will miss this when Sherlock has to go back to school. “What kind of things did I do to you, Lockie – baby?”

“All sorts.” Sherlock smirks. “Bending me over a table, and fucking me till I scream. Teasing me until I cum in my pants. Denying me until –” He stops – those are games he could never ‘win’, Mycroft always sets him up to fail – before gently ribbing him on his lack of control over his bodily functions. It’s humiliating that he enjoys these torturous games. 

“It’s alright, Lockie.” Mycroft kisses him on the cheek. “Nothing shameful about your kinks. Now, can you stand still for me?”

Sherlock nods as Mycroft’s hands revisit the fabric of his shirt. They descend slowly downward, before Mycroft unfastens Sherlock’s belt, unzips his fly and with one smooth move, kneels down onto the flowery persian carpet. 

“What have we here?” Mycroft muses when he pulls down Sherlock’s trousers, surprised at matching pink lacy panties that his brother is wearing, complete with dark bows. Little brother must have changed into them when he had been in the loo earlier. His brother’s prick – lovely and long – is already tenting against the delicate material. 

“Just putting your gifts to use, Daddy.” The tone is coquettish. 

Gifts? Mycroft sucks one of his brother’s balls into his mouth. Sherlock squirms at the onslaught, trying to obey Mycroft’s earlier command of standing still. Curiously, Mycroft slips his fingers past his brother’s scrotal sac, stroking the perineum and he feels something metallic through the panties. 

A plug. 

Naughty boy – Sherlock had no doubt spent his day playing with himself when Mycroft had been away at work. How many times did little brother cum today? It’s amazing though – Mycroft knows that his Lockie hardly even masturbated before he had found him lying on the stairs all those weeks ago. He thoroughly works his brother’s sac with his mouth, applying tried and tested pressure that he knows will drive Sherlock mad – but not quite enough for him to cum anytime soon. Accidentally or otherwise.

“T-twice!” Sherlock stutters when Mycroft suddenly palms his crotch through his now sodden panties – both with saliva and his own precum. 

“Only?” Mycroft snorts with skepticism as he slips a finger under Sherlock’s lace. “I don’t like liars, Lockie. I know naughty little boys like you, if left to their own devices – they would just play with themselves all day, hm?” 

“But brother – I did!” Sherlock whines as Mycroft lets his digit circle around the base of the metallic plug that stretches his brother’s hole. There is a change of texture in the centre of the base – ooh it’s one of those glittery jewel plugs that they had bought. “Honest.”

“Were you thinking of me, while you were off wanking?” 

“No, I thought of the paperboy –”

_Smack!_

“Ouch!” Sherlock complains when Mycroft slaps him on the arse, forcing the plug to shift. The pleasurable sensation causes his legs to shake and feel rather like jelly, and Mycroft’s hands are instantly at his hips, keeping him from falling. 

Mycroft keeps his voice calm and disinterested, despite the possessive jealousy that threatens to overcome him. The paperboy is indeed young, gay and pretty – but off-limits to his brother. He knows that Sherlock is playing him – teasing him… 

“Must I show you who you belong to, Lockie?” 

“God. Please.” Sherlock breathes as he looks down at his brother – who is still on his knees. “Mycroft…” 

His brother pulls Sherlock’s panties down to his thighs, before taking Sherlock’s cock in his mouth with enviable skill. The hot tongue swirls around his prick – and Sherlock is torn between closing his eyes and focusing on the sensations his brother creates or keeping them open, to see the awesome sight of the British government sucking his cock with fervour – still in his full three-piece suit. He gasps loudly when Mycroft flicks the base of his plug – causing it to rock against his sensitive insides. The tongue focuses on his slit, lapping at the dewdrops of precum. 

Please please please. Sherlock thinks as he climbs closer to the peak – his hips bucking desperately towards his brother’s mouth. Mycroft takes Sherlock’s lack of control in stride – increasing the heavenly suction – using a hand to cover what he doesn’t have in his mouth. And just as Sherlock feels like he is about to spend – he feels a firm pinching pressure against his perineum – blocking off his climax – and he whines loudly. “My. Please. I want to cum.” 

“Not yet, Lockie.” Mycroft smiles after he lets Sherlock’s cock go with a loud slurp. “You had your fun earlier, so I will have mine now. Bend over the bed, with your bum in the air.” 

“Fuck me!” Sherlock exclaims as he rushes for the bed. “Fuck me well!”

Mycroft shakes his head in amusement at his brother’s behaviour. He loves it, how disinhibited Sherlock can get. How shameless. How excited. He’s never had such fun sex in his life. Mycroft is simply happy that no one had ruined Sherlock’s experience with sex. People have not been kind to his brother – his genius, his inability to tolerate stupidity and his uncontrollable acerbic tongue. 

His brother does as he is told, leaning gracefully over the bed, his panties and trousers had slid down to his ankles – his bum elevated in the air. The cheeks jiggle with impertinence when Sherlock gives his arse a lewd shake. And of course, little brother had picked the plug with the pink heart. 

Standing up, giving his knees some time to recover from kneeling so long, he walks over to his brother. He cups those generous arse cheeks and gives a squeeze, causing Sherlock to push back against his hands. Carefully he pulls the plug out slightly – and gently pushes it in again – causing Sherlock to emit a grunt. Slowly, he fucks his brother with the plug – and Sherlock’s hands claw at the sheets – while curses of pleasure escape from his luscious lips. 

“My. Please. Fuck me.” Sherlock begs, so beautifully. “Want you.”

“I thought you wanted the paperboy.” Mycroft replies back. 

“No. My. Want you. Only you.” Sherlock fights against his instinct to rut against the bed. It would be too much – and he wants to cum with Mycroft’s prick up his arse. “Please… I only love you.” He whispers – almost at the verge of tears when Mycroft moves the plug so that it rubs perfectly against that sweet spot.

“Oh, darling boy.” Mycroft has never felt such a fondness rush through his body filling his being with an incredible warmth. “My darling.” He whispers as he finally pulls the plug out – enjoying the gape – the deliciously reddened rim of Sherlock’s loosened arsehole. 

Too lazy to grab the already opened lubricant near the headboard, Mycroft fishes in his pockets for a disposable packet and rips it open with haste. He dumps it into Sherlock’s hole before fumbling with his own trousers to free his own hard cock. 

They both gasp when Mycroft pushes in. For Sherlock, the contrast of cold metal versus hot cock seems to amplify the sensation of penetration. He pushes back slightly to take his brother up to the hilt, feeling his brother’s heavy sac smack against his flesh. His brother’s arms immediately wrap around him and he sighs when Mycroft kisses his nape. 

“You feel so good.” Mycroft praises. “Mm… my perfect boy? Tell me, who do you belong to?”

“You!” Sherlock moans when Mycroft rewards his answer with a thrust. 

“Who is the most gorgeous boy?”

“Me.” Sherlock cannot help but smile, groaning when his brother fucks into him twice.

“Who do I adore most in the world, hm – Lockie?”

“Me?” Sherlock answers – tentatively. 

“Of course, silly boy.” Mycroft presses another kiss – this time on Sherlock’s back. He rolls his hips, fucking his brother languidly. “You are mine. Say it.”

“I am yours.” Sherlock gasps out the words, too busy mewling in pleasure at the slow and most thorough fucking that Mycroft is giving to him, providing calculated and the most infuriating friction in all the right places. His thighs are trembling as Mycroft keeps him on the edge – but it’s not quite enough to tip him over. “Please, My. I’ve been good. Please let me cum?”

“Patience.” Mycroft grins.

“Patience is overrated.” Sherlock grumbles, before he makes more pleading noises. He reaches over impatiently to grab his own cock – but Mycroft grabs his wrist instead. “Ah, ah – ah, Lockie – you are cumming with my cock alone.”

“Please. Mycroft.” Sherlock begins to sob with need. “It’s too much.”

“Then cum.” Mycroft demands, and Sherlock does – when Mycroft thrusts into him hard – ravaging him – he’s going to be feeling it tomorrow. 

Mycroft cums relatively quick, thrusting into Sherlock’s overstimulated hole – but Sherlock loves that – being fucked through and after his release. When Mycroft collapses against him, breathing hard – he whispers, half-blissed out. “I love you, brother mine – so much.” 

A tear escapes one of Sherlock’s eyes and runs down his cheek. Never had he imagined that he could have this. To be loved (unconditionally?) by someone he loves. And he knows that these lovely days will end. University is starting soon. 

“Shh… brother. Don’t cry.” Mycroft rolls them both so that they are both facing each other. “I love you. Distance won’t change that. You are the only boy I want to have in my bed. And in here.” He presses his hand against his chest. “I will come visit.” 

“You promise?” Sherlock lisps the last syllable, but he ignores it – knowing that Mycroft finds it endearing. 

“Of course.” Mycroft smiles at him. Sentiment is easy to express once he had gotten over the inertia at the beginning. “And I will call. You will get sick of me, little brother.”

“Possessive and jealous.” Sherlock observes as Mycroft uses his arm to draw him in closer to cuddle. “I like it. You wear it well, Mycroft.”

“Mm… Maybe I should get you a dog collar with a tag. Make you off-limits. Mark you as mine.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock is scandalized, recalling that leather studded collar that Mycroft had been contemplating in a certain shop. “I would rather get a tattoo.”

“I suppose tattooing ‘Property of Mycroft Holmes’ on your arse wouldn’t fare well…”

“Something something incest being illegal would get us both in trouble if anyone sees it.”

“Ah, little brother – you are growing up quite reasonably.” Mycroft teases, while Sherlock pouts. 

Mycroft gently presses a finger against Sherlock’s lips before leaning in to capture them with his own. Life is good.

* * *

* * *

#  **9**

Being alone had never… felt so lonely. 

Sherlock sighs, sitting at his desk, ignoring the inorganic chemistry text open in front of him. Molecular Orbital theory. There is a midterm for the course soon.

In his third year – he had managed to get a room alone. Solitude is nice and all. But he misses Mycroft. He had stayed away from Wilkes and his friends – avoiding the coke parties, and all the other hard stuff that the popular set had been doing. It’s easy – for Sherlock no longer had any classes with them now. Sometimes he still craves for a hit. A high. When it gets too bad, he calls Mycroft – who had never yet left his calls unanswered. He knows big brother has excused himself from meetings, interrupted discussions with foreign dignitaries and important agents and whatever else he does to talk to Sherlock. Mycroft is important enough now that no one questions his excuses. 

Taking his phone, he scrolls through the pictures that he had sent Mycroft over the past two months. Selfies. Him lying on his bed with only a tie around his neck. A headshot of him with a rose stem in his mouth (for Mycroft’s birthday). Him playing with the various sex toys he keeps hidden under his bed. Plugs, vibrators, anal beads, nipple clamps, clothespins, dildos, gags, cuffs, panties – the list goes on and on. Pictures of himself masturbating. Mycroft had sent him pics in return, but Sherlock had deleted them all and stored them in his brain. For his brother’s birthday – Sherlock had thought about giving a more meaningful gift. Something like a symbolic tattoo. Or even piercings. Maybe something in his cock. Or his tits. Mycroft would like that. He is certain. 

But he had refrained. Time apart makes him feel uncertain about their relationship. Insecure. Video and phone calls – texting are poor substitutes for the real thing. They had planned meetings, but they had all fallen through. Mycroft had something that came up at every turn. Was big brother avoiding him? It’s hard to say. He buries his face in his arms. 

His phone rings. He lets it ring a few times, wanting to wallow in his despair. Sighing he picks it up – wondering if it’s Mummy calling for the umpteenth time in a week. 

It’s Mycroft. A thrill tingles throughout his nerves.

“My?” 

“Lockie? You at home?”

“Where else would I be?” 

It’s a Friday evening. Sherlock doesn’t have plans these days. He just holes up in his room. Or at the lab that one of his professors had generously let him use to do a study on blood stains in the context of forensics. 

Mycroft ignores the question. “Are you in bed?”

Ooh. Cutting to the chase. Promising. Sherlock likes it. The sadness leaves him, as he replies – coyly. “I can be.”

“Oh, you were doing homework? I should let you –”

“No, Mycroft –” Sherlock’s voice is frantic. “No, I wasn’t.”

“What were you doing then?”

“Thinking. I miss you.” He exhales shakily as he fumbles with his clothing – removing them from his person – letting them fall carelessly onto the floor. His heart is hammering in his chest, while a sensation of yearning so strong takes over him – making it hard to breathe.

“Mm. I miss you too, darling boy. You. You are stripping.” Mycroft deduces.

“For you.” Sherlock doesn’t even care how ridiculously cheesy everything sounds. “I want you, Daddy.” He throws his naked self onto his bed. “On the bed now.”

“So I heard, darling.” He can hear Mycroft chuckle. “So eager.”

“What do you want me to do?” 

“Do you have a marker? I want you to write whatever you want on yourself and send a picture.”

“That’s it?” Sherlock feels somewhat disappointed.

“You will find it worth your while – I promise.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock acquiesces, hurrying to find a marker somewhere in the room. 

“I will talk to you soon.” 

“My?” 

The call ends. Strange. Sherlock thinks. He finds some markers and returns back to the bed. Sitting down cross-legged, he feels lost. What should he write? Taking a black marker he doodles on one side of his abdomen, Ns, Os, Ss, Hs – lines, rings – oxytocin. Love. Bonding. Intimacy. And then he thinks about it. About where he had hypothetically thought about having himself tattooed. Mycroft had mentioned arse a while ago, but Sherlock would rather have it somewhere where he could see it. Inner thigh? Using the same black marker, he writes Mycroft’s initials: MH – in his brother’s hand. As he does so, there is the sound of a key in the door. 

Oh. That’s why big brother had called. Damn, he had heard footsteps while Mycroft had been talking in the background. Big brother had been walking. He had mailed big brother a set of spare keys to his place. His heart is pounding again; his whole body is aquiver. The door swings open with a loud creak, and Mycroft steps into the room with a small suitcase. Sherlock stares and stares at him in disbelief as if he is an oasis in the middle of a desert. 

His big brother hangs his umbrella and his mid-autumn coat on a pair of hooks behind the door. No waistcoat. Those old-fashioned sleeve-garters. Crisp white shirt. Dark blue tie with fleur-de-lis motif. Lost weight – maybe five pounds since they had parted. His hairline had receded further. A touchy subject for Mycroft, but Sherlock doesn’t care. Tired – his brother had been working hard recently. More than usual. Sherlock wants to jump up and run into his arms, but he is paralyzed. This is a beautiful dream. 

Does big brother still love him? 

Mycroft turns to face him. Those blue eyes brighten despite the shadows beneath his eyes. Affection radiates from them. It fills a hunger that Sherlock hadn’t even known. Mycroft walks forward a few steps, frowning at the garments that Sherlock had left carelessly on the ground. Big brother bends down and picks them up, folding them as he goes – leaving them in a neat pile on Sherlock’s nightstand. When he stands at Sherlock’s bed, the blues of his eyes darken, as he whispers. “Lock.” 

“My.” Sherlock moves – feeling the leaden sensation in his limbs dissipate. He is shamelessly naked, but that’s a state they both enjoy. And soon, he is swept into Mycroft’s arms – his brother gently nuzzling him – letting their noses slot together. Skin against skin. 

“Missed you.” Mycroft says as he turns his face slightly to kiss him. 

“Mm.” Sherlock mumbles as they kiss and kiss – relearning each other’s lips with simple pecks and brushes. 

At some point they fall into the bed. Mycroft loses some articles of his own clothes, revealing the lovely dark fur of his strong chest. The gym. Big brother had been going more frequently. 

“Oxytocin.” Mycroft traces some of the lines on Sherlock’s abdomen. “Released during cuddling. Facilitates bonding.” His eyes catch sight of his inner thigh. “What’s this?” A digit goes to trace the ‘M’ and the ‘H’. Some of the dark ink rubs off onto his fingertip. “Hm… you haven’t been cavorting around with anyone else with those initials, have you?”

“Never.” Sherlock reassures him, sounding offended. “It’s for you.”

“It better be for me.” Mycroft almost growls. “I like it.”

“I thought about it. Getting a tattoo.” 

“More meaningful if we do it together, little brother.” Mycroft smiles. It’s too soon for such things. And, maybe he would like to brand it instead. Yes. That’s a fantastic idea. “Perhaps in the future.”

“Yes.” Sherlock curls up against him. 

“So pliant you are today.” Mycroft remarks. Little brother skipping the bratty phase. Sherlock must really miss him. “So good for me.”

“Your good boy, yes.” Sherlock purrs when Mycroft reaches over to stroke his curls. 

“Gorgeous boy.” Mycroft picks up one of the markers – purple. 

He writes ‘gorgeous’ on his brother’s belly. “Mine.” Mycroft says silkily as he writes the four letters over Sherlock’s thatch of curls. All in capital letters.

Other words get written down. Precious. Beautiful. Daddy’s boy. Darling. Sherlock doesn’t know whether to be offended or not when ‘SLUT’ gets written down on his opposite thigh. 

“My slut.” Mycroft smirks – all too knowingly. 

And all Sherlock could do is nod at that. 

It’s true… after all. 

“What do you want, Lockie?” Mycroft asks, dropping the marker – and now focusing on stroking Sherlock’s naked skin. 

“You.” 

“You have me.” Mycroft says as little brother crawls into his lap. “You will always have me. Whether you want it or not.”

“Why would I not want you?” Sherlock asks, confused. “I crave you with every fibre – every particle – of my being. My. Will always want you.” 

Mycroft wisely does not bring up the fact that Sherlock is still young, and things can change in this volatile world. He would always want his brother. Mycroft knows that. He isn’t a saint by any means. But he loves him – and would do almost anything for him. Nevertheless, Sherlock’s words touch him – soften the heart of the man of ice. He allows little brother to make himself at home in his lap before holding him with his arms. Mycroft had missed this. Having little brother so close to him. Sherlock’s head rests against his chest, seeming to feel comforted with listening to Mycroft’s heart beat. 

He can forget about everything else in his life. No annoying Prime Ministers wanting him at their beck and call. No little political games with the upstarts who do not know who they are dealing with. No political chess over frivolous things. Money. Oil. Contracts. Connections. The war in goddamned Iraq for non-existent weapons of mass destruction. Manipulating politicians who can’t see things beyond their own short-term gains. People come and go in politics, but Mycroft will always be an institution upon himself – to steer the remnants of the British Empire. 

“You could fuck me.” Mycroft says, minutes later.

“Mm… Rather have it the other way around.” Sherlock murmurs. 

“How would you know if you never tried?” 

“I… I don’t know.” Sherlock admits. “But – My, you know…” He trails off.

“You’ve given me your virginity. I think it’s only fair that I give you mine in return.” Mycroft says. “Not that the concept of virginity itself is important. But I would like to share this experience with you, little brother. And I know. That you want me to dictate proceedings. While you try to provoke me with your bratty antics – pretending that you don’t want to follow my demands.” 

Sherlock’s lips curve into a smile. “Well, you’ve got me there – genius.”

“And coerce me to do something nasty – like spank your naughty arse.” 

“That sounds promising.”

“You could always just tell me what you want, little brother – without the song and dance.”

“But brother, that’s boring!” Sherlock grins. “I like to give you… incentives. At times.” And then he admits, “Sometimes… I want to see the darker facets of your being.” 

Mycroft shudders at that revelation. Yes. He could be that. Rather, he is infamous for his ruthlessness. Rumours abound and circulate back to his ears. They call him the ‘Iceman’. The MI6 had recently given him the code name ‘Antarctica’. They call him merciless (although Mycroft has given leniency to those who had deserved it). Unrelatable and cold (alas, it is not his job to be personable – it’s the Prime Minister’s job to be the public face). But… for Sherlock, he wants none of that. He wants to pet him. Indulge him. Spoil him. Love him. Hold him close and never let him go. Etcetera, etcetera. 

“Lockie. I don’t want to be like that towards you.”

“I know, brother. But I want to see it all the same. You being all ruthless. I can sense it, you know. Lurking under the surface. The day you held me under the sea. The sense of danger. It excites me.” Sherlock rearranges himself so that he can look directly at his brother. 

“Touch me then, Lock.” Mycroft’s voice changes. 

There is authority imbued within each syllable that Sherlock is positive that has made powerful people quake in their shoes. It compels one to obey, and Sherlock does. He caresses his brother’s chest, tracing the lines of his well-defined muscle, the edges of bone – letting his fingers savour the softness of Mycroft’s generous dark fur. It’s amazing how different they look – despite sharing genetics from the same pool. His brother’s abdomen is less soft than it had been in the summer – and he could feel Mycroft flex his abdominals. Insecurities. He wants to tell his brother to relax, but he feels like that would shatter the dominant state that Mycroft has temporarily taken on. His eyes meet with Mycroft’s steely ones inadvertently. 

Sherlock understands. Or at least… he thinks he does. His brother is the older one. The smarter one. The stronger one. Professionally more powerful than Sherlock could ever dream of. In the end, none of that matters. They both have the power to hurt each other. Love leaves you vulnerable in that way. Sherlock lets his palms brush against Mycroft’s chest, letting his fingers caress his dark nipples, causing them to pebble and harden. He moves downward. Making eye contact with Mycroft again, he then presses a kiss on his brother’s belly – near the umbilicus. He can feel Mycroft relax as he continues to worship, and before he reaches his brother’s cock, Mycroft gently batters his hands away. Sherlock watches as Mycroft unbuckles his belt, slides his trousers and pants off his hairy legs and gets on his knees. He faces away from Sherlock, before presenting his pert arse cheeks. 

“Lick my hole, brother.” Mycroft orders in that same no-nonsense tone, and Sherlock quickly moves.

Cautiously he approaches his brother’s arse. He has never been on this end of things. At Mycroft’s rear end. His hand actually shakes when he touches a buttock. 

“Get the lubricant.” Mycroft adds; this time in a gentler voice. 

Sherlock does, fishing it out from his nightstand drawer. With one hand, he carefully spreads his brother’s cheeks, finding that secret orifice. 

Mycroft shivers when he feels the cold lubricant touch his hole, and grunts when Sherlock’s warm tongue tentatively licks at his opening. Slowly, the tongue swirls around his rim in the most maddeningly way, before penetrating further. God. Mycroft has not felt better in a long time. The strokes increase in confidence with the mewls of pleasure that Mycroft cannot suppress – or rather – he shouldn’t – as Sherlock would like the feedback. A moan escapes him when a slick finger lightly brushes against his perineum and teases his rim. Fuck. Mycroft wants more. 

“Add a finger –” He gasps when the teasing finger slowly slides into his hole. 

Sherlock prepares him well, and then Mycroft tells him to stop. 

Gently, Mycroft positions his brother against the headboard of his bed. Sherlock is wide-eyed, looking somewhat nervous – and Mycroft leans forward to kiss him. When they break apart, Mycroft smiles at him – the affection in big brother’s eyes causes something to flip in his chest – it calms him down. A hand gently cups his cheek, before caressing downwards – Mycroft presses adoring kisses in its wake. Sherlock gasps when Mycroft’s mouth takes his cock – feeling himself grow harder. He envies how Mycroft makes blowjobs look easy – for him – it is still a work-in-progress. How could anyone look so dignified while sucking someone’s cock? 

Nevertheless, the sight and sounds never fails to astound him – seeing big brother eagerly devour his prick with tantalizingly wet noises – his head resting on Sherlock’s thigh as he does so. At some point his fingers find themselves in Mycroft’s precious tufts of dark hair – gently combing through them. Mycroft purrs, sending vibrations up Sherlock’s prick – and Sherlock leans back against the headboard – getting closer and closer before big brother lets him go with filthy slurp. 

“My?” Sherlock asks, tentatively as Mycroft seems to falter a little. 

It’s a tad disconcerting. Seeing big brother like this. Nervous. Vulnerable. He wants to say that Mycroft doesn’t have to do this.

But Mycroft moves, he supports himself by holding onto Sherlock’s shoulders. His legs straddle Sherlock’s thighs, and gracefully – he lowers himself onto Sherlock’s hard and weeping prick. Indescribable. The slick heat of a ring of muscle clinging so tightly to Sherlock’s glans. He can hear Mycroft gasp at the moment of penetration. His eyes instinctively flutter shut – it will take an incredible amount of willpower to not spend prematurely. He doesn’t want to disappoint his brother.

A hand touches his cheek.

“Open your eyes, Lockie.” Mycroft whispers. “It’s alright.”

“I-I… don’t think I will last.” 

“It’s okay.” Mycroft sinks down slowly onto Sherlock’s shaft. It burns, but in a good way. He had never been interested in bottoming, but had grown curious considering that Sherlock had always been so eager to be on the receiving end. “It’s alright.” In the dim lighting of the room, his brother really does look his age. So damned young. “God, Lockie – you feel so good.” He praises, as he finally takes the prick to the hilt. “Relax, love.” Mycroft pulls away that bottom lip that Sherlock is starting to nibble again at, once more. 

There is a wetness in Sherlock’s eyes. It’s embarrassing to be at the verge of tears. How many days and nights did he sit here, on the bed – longing for Mycroft? He averts Mycroft’s gaze.

“Sh…” Mycroft uses a fingertip to rub away some tears threatening to fall, before gently tilting Sherlock’s head – forcing his brother to look at him again. “Watch, brother.” He gasps as he moves his hips just right, feeling the cock rub his prostate perfectly. “I… love you. Lock. Love you more than anything. Remember that. Always.”

And before Sherlock could help himself, he spills his load into Mycroft for the first time with a soft grunt of ‘Mycroft’. Before he could offer his brother any more stimulation – Mycroft takes his own cock in hand and strokes once, twice – before painting Sherlock’s body – already decorated with his terms of endearment, with his own secretions. 

“How was that?” Mycroft asks, moments later – smearing his own cum all over Sherlock’s chest and abs, while his brother’s cum drips out from his rear end. His brother looks absolutely destroyed. 

“Intense.” Sherlock manages to find a word. “Brother… I missed you so much.”

“I know. Lockie, I know.” Mycroft envelops him into his arms, disregarding the sticky mess. “Worth repeating?”

Sherlock nods, savouring the warmth – the security of his brother’s embrace. “I still like bottoming better – I think.”

“More permutations, darling.” Mycroft smiles. “It’s okay.”

“I know it is. It’s still hard.”

“To feel vulnerable? Yes.”

“I –” Sherlock can feel himself tearing up again. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“I know. Neither do I. I will stay till Monday morning.” 

“Mm… My. Let’s not talk about ghastly things – like you leaving.”

“As you wish.” Mycroft replies – knowing that the weekend would not be enough. 

Forever wouldn’t be enough.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

* * *

#  **10**

“You aren’t heading back?” Sherlock’s new flatmate sounds surprised after throwing down some notes to cover their dim-sum.

“No-pe!” Sherlock replies brightly. “I am going to go see my hot lover.”

“You’re having me on!” John scoffs loudly. “You mentioned earlier that you don’t have a girlfriend or a boyfriend!”

“I’d like to think that we are beyond boyfriend/girlfriend – John. Significant others? Soulmates.” Sherlock muses – they couldn’t very well be husbands for legal reasons, but it doesn’t matter. 

“Then why in bloody hell did you get a flatshare with me?”

“Because I needed a place to see my clients and to do my work – in an economical fashion. Keeping work and play separate. Now – John, thank you for the lovely evening – but I must dash! Ta!” 

Sherlock dashes out the restaurant, knowing that his precious time with big brother is ticking away. Mycroft had offered to pay for his flat, but Sherlock wants to be more financially independent and use his own money for once. Plus, John seems like a useful person to have around. For all the boring stuff. The cleaning. Making nice with the clients. Brewing tea. And the man did save his life – the most he could offer is his company for dinner. He frowns – Mycroft is going to be upset at him for various reasons. Best to head him off before those emotions have time to fester.

* * *

When Sherlock steps into the dimmed living room, he sees Mycroft slumped over, the palms of his hands resting against his face on the sofa. His hair is in disarray, he hadn’t bothered to change out of his suit – the tie alarmingly askew. Mycroft didn’t look upset; he looked… defeated. 

“My…?” Sherlock whispers – breaking the quiet. “My?” He asks – louder, when Mycroft failed to respond. 

His brother finally looks up. And blinks. “I thought you were going to spend the night with your new goldfish…”

“No.” Sherlock walks over to his brother; any mask that Mycroft had on from earlier in the day when Sherlock had been with John is in tatters. The vulnerability is evident in the blues of his eyes. “Never. Mycroft…” He reaches over to touch his brother’s chin, feeling the day’s worth of stubble against his skin. “I…” He swallows. Words are suddenly difficult. “If you aren’t happy, then I can just revoke the flatshare. I am sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind.”

Sherlock’s eyes are earnest. Mycroft could say the word, and he knows that his brother would drop this insignificant Dr. John Watson from their lives. Even though the man did save his brother from his sheer stupidity and arrogance. No. He will be the bigger person here. He can’t just let his irrational jealousy topple over something Sherlock had worked hard to set up. “Keep your pet, then. But remember –”

“That I am yours?” Sherlock interrupts, his voice soft. “How could I possibly forget?” His fingers instantly reach for his trousers, and he unzips his fly – letting gravity and his hand pull the garment down. Instead of a ring, Sherlock has a brand – a darkened ‘MH’ seared into the flesh of his inner thigh. It had been done a few years ago, writ by Mycroft’s own hand. He loves it; it reminds him that he isn’t alone – that he is loved beyond reason. One of the many secrets they have between them. 

“You don’t regret it – do you?” The words waver. 

“God. No. Mycroft – I won’t ever leave you. And I thought I was the idiot between us.” Sherlock’s fingers are unconsciously tracing the brand now. 

“Come here – little brother.” Mycroft gestures to him, and Sherlock obeys. 

He lets his arms wrap around Mycroft’s shoulders. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke makes its way to Sherlock’s nose, and he tuts – for they had both been quitting together. 

“Forgive me, it’s been a long night.” Mycroft sighs. And then he reprimands. “And, Sherlock – don’t you ever do that again.”

“Do what again?” Sherlock makes himself at home in Mycroft’s lap. 

“Gamble your life like that. Stupid boy.” Mycroft astonishes. 

“But, I was sure I was right – big brother. It was definitely that pill…”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft says urgently. “I don’t care about how you need to prove your genius. I just want you home. Safe and sound. Is that too much to ask for?”

Sherlock doesn’t have anything to say to that. He just simply buries his head in Mycroft’s shoulder, feeling big brother’s hand lightly trace the curvature of his spine. Recklessness. Games. Yes. He had lost his mind at that. The bloody cabbie had played him all too well. John had saved him at that instance. Mycroft had been undoubtedly a few steps behind. The hand slides into his curls, just over the occiput – and he purrs, relaxing into the caress. Perhaps he ought to say it.

“I am… sorry.”

“Just… don’t do it again. Or perhaps…”

“You will teach me a lesson?” Sherlock smirks – thinking quite happily about other lessons that Mycroft had dished out over the years.

“No. That would be positively reinforcing bad behaviour. Should just ignore your sexual needs for a wee –”

“Brother – that’s cruel and unusual punishment!” Sherlock exclaims in dismay. “You can’t!”

“You slutty boy. Can’t go a week without a good fucking?” 

“Yes, Daddy – I am a complete whore for your cock – as you know. Need you in all my holes.” Sherlock says with not a hint of shame and he yelps when Mycroft pinches his arse. “My!”

“It is my arse.” Mycroft simply grins, finding that his evening is about to take a turn for the better. “Strip and get on your knees. Put that impertinent mouth of yours to work, won’t you?” 

His brother rolls his eyes, but Mycroft just simply sits back and watches Sherlock unbutton his shirt. The familiar, beloved lean torso comes into view. Artlessly, Sherlock pulls at his shirt – revealing his shoulders and the sparkle of the barbells he wears in his nipples while extending his neck slightly – showing himself off for Mycroft’s benefit. He looks like a model. With a deliberate sway of his hips, Sherlock saunters over, pulls off his pants and gracefully – he slides to his knees. Mycroft sighs when Sherlock nuzzles at his wool-clad crotch – feeling his cock stiffen while he himself relaxes – leaning further into the sofa. A groan escapes from him when Sherlock mouths at his balls – soaking his trousers with saliva. And then, before Mycroft could tell Sherlock to get on with it – his brother, with practiced ease, divests Mycroft of his belt, pants and trousers – leaving them in a puddle on the floor. 

“God…!” Mycroft gasps when Sherlock engulfs the majority of his cock with his decadent warm mouth in one go. Gone is the uncertain little brother that had sloppily sucked his prick almost a decade ago – but Mycroft loves the confident one that takes his place. His brother sucks and sucks while carefully applying tongue – drawing out all sorts of noises and muffled curses from Mycroft before Mycroft reaches downward to tug at his brother’s curls. “Slower Lockie – and then I want you to ride me.” 

His brother releases his cock with a filthy little slurp – with drool dribbling on his chin. God. Mycroft wants to kiss him. Wants to hold him – and never let him go. That devilish pink tongue – so pink – swirls around Sherlock’s lips, catching a bit of the escaped drool before darting out to lick at Mycroft’s slit, daintily tasting the precum. As Sherlock continues to tease Mycroft’s prick, with kitten licks and sloppy kisses – Mycroft could make out his brother’s hands fumbling with something – before disappearing from view – and fuck – that’s hot – fuck. His brother’s mouth takes him back in just as Sherlock’s violinist fingers had snuck back to work himself open at the same time. Not much preparation is needed – considering how often Sherlock gets fucked these days. Spoiled boy.

Sherlock clambers back onto the sofa; his movements clumsy with need, his hair curling everywhere – so wildly. The look of lust/love on his face takes Mycroft’s breath away when slowly – and so sensually he gyrates his hips downward and allows Mycroft’s prick to breach his already lubricated hole. Fuck – that feels so good – how Sherlock’s internal muscles cling so deliciously to his turgid flesh. Mycroft allows his hands to wander as Sherlock – ever a tease – fucks himself slowly on his cock. They stroke Sherlock’s delicate sides, his taut belly and tease his little pink pierced nubs – tugging, pinching and pulling, forcing little brother to whimper and moan at the stimulation. Then Sherlock leans over and catches Mycroft’s lips in an intense kiss – their first proper kiss since their goodbye kiss in the morning – and Mycroft could deduce what kind of dim sum and tea that little brother had for dinner. 

A gasp is wrenched from Sherlock when he suddenly feels Mycroft’s cock impale him deeper. Oh god. He had barely realized it – but big brother had somehow stood up from the couch and lifted him up – allowing gravity to do its job. Bodily his brother carries him – stopping to thrust into his hole once in a while – while Sherlock clings on for dear life – wrapping his arms and legs around his brother. God. Mycroft is still so fucking strong. It thrills him beyond words. And then he feels his back hit something solid, something wooden – ah the dining table. Not the one that Mycroft has for display, but the homey smaller one that they eat their meals at. 

There is something dark. Something unfathomable in the darkening of Mycroft’s irises. Big brother is panting from the exertion, shaking somewhat from using all those muscles. Large hands grab at Sherlock’s shoulders. Strong. Unyielding. Possessive. “You are mine.” Mycroft growls as he thrusts into Sherlock once more. “Mine, you understand?” He punctuates his words with his hips, while Sherlock tries to grab something – anything on the empty table for some support. The sounds that leave Sherlock are obscene as Sherlock tries to thrust back for more – Mycroft had brought him to the brink, and is making him stay there. 

“Yes.” Sherlock sobs out for breath.

“Say it.” Mycroft’s eyes shift – like a predator. Like the dangerous being that he is, skulking in the shadows of politics. His voice is harsh. “Say it, Lockie. Who do you belong to?”

Sherlock’s hand tries to reach for his own cock – seeking for release – but Mycroft grabs his wrist and pins it mercilessly to the table. 

“God. Mycroft. I… I belong to you. Please.” 

“Not impertinent  _ little  _ doctors who don’t quite have the apparatus to fuck you as you like? As you need?”

“No-oo…” Sherlock moans as Mycroft rubs his cock so deliciously against his prostate. It’s hardly enough. Damned clever big brothers who know Sherlock’s body better than he does. “Pl… please. My…” 

“No one will ever fuck you like I do, Lock.” 

As a desperate measure, Sherlock encircles Mycroft’s torso with his legs – scrambling to gain some leverage. “No… Mycroft… only you. I love you. Please. Let me –”

“My!” Sherlock gasps when he erupts – feeling the cum land in splashes against his belly. His brother follows soon after, looking like he had just run a marathon; his tie resting on Sherlock’s lap. Arms help him to a sitting position on the table, and Mycroft engulfs him in a fierce hug, letting his fingers run through Sherlock’s hair. Mycroft’s seminal fluids are dripping all over the table from his hole while Sherlock’s are getting smeared all over Mycroft’s shirt, waistcoat and tie, but neither cared. Sherlock feels safe, loved and cared for beyond all reason. And even after almost ten years of being together – his brother could still be so insecure. So jealous. Of an insignificant someone that Sherlock had met barely hours ago. 

It’s ridiculous. 

“M’not jealous.” Mycroft mumbles, evidently having followed Sherlock’s train of thought.

“Are too.” Sherlock reaches up to finally loosen Mycroft’s rather abused tie. “And, no – Mycroft, I have absolutely no regrets. I don’t care if I can’t be seen with you in public, kissing or something like that. We talked about this before. Many times.”

“I know. It’s just…” Mycroft sighs. Seeing Sherlock and Dr. Watson getting along so well in the span of hours had really reminded him of what he could not have with his brother. And as much as the doctor would defend his heterosexuality, there are just so many tells that set Mycroft’s own gaydar off like no tomorrow. He loved Sherlock. It would kill him to let him go. 

“John knows I have somebody. He doesn’t know it’s you. In fact, he thinks we are something like archenemies or something.”

“He will grow curious, little brother.”

“Let him. I will just tell him that I keep my love life private. For the safety of the nation.” Sherlock winks, and Mycroft presses his lips against his brother’s forehead. 

“Shall we go off to bed? It’s getting late.”

“Mm… Mycroft – don’t go to work tomorrow. Let’s fuck instead.” Sherlock stifles a yawn, feeling that post-case exhaustion settling into his bones. “I know you recently bought candles and you have ice cubes in the freezer. And you have that fancy champagne and chocolate cake! Let me lick them off your belly!”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft says with a faux-scandalized air. “Those are not for sex!”

“Boring!” Sherlock slides off the table, ignoring the mess that he had left behind. “Well, last one into the shower is a lazy pencil-pusher!” 

Mycroft sighs deeply – and he turns to give chase – feeling absolutely ridiculous about running in his own house half-dressed. He would have to tell Anthea to start digging up everything about this Moriarty person the next morning. But for now, he will go shower, cuddle and sleep with his brother (just sleep!). 

And tomorrow will be another day. 

**Fin**


End file.
